GREETINGS    AND    WELCOME    TO    EVERY    READER 

(KATE  SANBORN) 


MEMORIES  AND 
ANECDOTES 


BY 


KATE   SANBORN 

AUTHOR  OF 

ADOPTING  AN  ABANDONED  FARM,"  "  ABANDONING  AN 
ADOPTED  FARM/'  "  OLD-TIME  WALL  PAPERS,"  ETC. 


WITH  SIXTEEN  ILLUSTRATIONS 


G.  R  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK  LONDON 

Ifcnicfcerbocfcer  press 

1915 


COPYRIGHT,  1915 

.      •       BY 

ATE  SANBORN 


press,  IRew  l^orft 


PS  m 


A7A 


ALL  MY  FRIENDS  EVERYWHERE 

ESPECIALLY  TO  MY  BELOVED 
"NEW  HAMPSHIRE  DAUGHTERS"  IN  MASSACHUSETTS, 

MY  PUPILS  IN  SMITH  COLLEGE, 
ALSO  AT  PACKER  INSTITUTE,  BROOKLYN, 

AND  ALL  THOSE  WHO  HAD  THE  PATIENCE  TO  LISTEN  TO  MY 
LECTURES, 

WITH   GRATEFUL   REGARDS   TO   THOSE   DARTMOUTH   GRADUATES 

WHO,    LIKING   MY   FATHER,    WERE   ALWAYS    GIVING   HIS 
AMBITIOUS   DAUGHTER   A   HELPING   HAND 


974476 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I 

My  Early  Days — Odd  Characters  in  our  Village — Dis 
tinguished  Visitors  to  Dartmouth — Two  Story -Tellers 
of  Hanover — A  "Beacon  Light"  and  a  Master  of 
Synonyms — A  Day  with  Bryant  in  his  Country  Home 
— A  Wedding  Trip  to  the  White  Mountains  in  1826  in 
"A  One-Hoss  Shay" — A  Great  Career  which  Began 
in  a  Country  Store  ......  I 

CHAPTER  II 

A  Friend  at  Andover,  Mass. — Hezekiah  Butterworth — A 
Few  of  my  Own  Folks — Professor  Putnam  of  Dart 
mouth — One  Year  at  Packer  Institute,  Brooklyn — 
Beecher's  Face  in  Prayer— The  Poet  Saxe  as  I  Saw 
him — Offered  the  Use  of  a  Rare  Library — Miss  Edna 
Dean  Proctor — New  Stories  of  Greeley — Experiences  at 
St.  Louis.  ........  39 

CHAPTER  III 

Happy  Days  with  Mrs.  Botta — My  Busy  Life  in  New 
York — President  Barnard  of  Columbia  College — A  Sur 
prise  from  Bierstadt — Professor  Doremus,  a  Universal 
Genius — Charles  H.  Webb,  a  truly  funny  "Funny 
Man  " — Mrs.  Esther  Herman,  a  Modest  Giver  .  .  75 

CHAPTER  IV 

Three  Years  at  Smith  College — Appreciation  of  Its  Founder 

—A  Successful  Lecture  Tour— My  Trip  to  Alaska      .     115 


vi  Contents 

PAGE 

CHAPTER  V 

Frances  E.  Willard— Walt  Whitman— Lady  Henry  Somerset 
—Mrs.  Hannah  Whitehall  Smith — A  Teetotaler  for 
Ten  Minutes — Olive  Thorn  Miller — Hearty  Praise  for 
Mrs.  Lippincott  (Grace  Greenwood.)  .  .  .  141 

CHAPTER  VI 

In  and  near  Boston — Edward  Everett  Hale — Thomas 
Wentworth  Higginson — Julia  Ward  Howe — Mary  A. 
Livermore — A  Day  at  the  Concord  School — Harriet 
G.  Hosmer — "Dora  Distria,"  our  Illustrious  Visitor  162 

CHAPTER  VII 

Elected  to  be  the  First  President  of  New  Hampshire's 
Daughters  in  Massachusetts.  Now  Honorary  Presi 
dent—Kind  Words  which  I  Highly  Value— Three,  but 
not  "of  a  Kind" — A  Strictly  Family  Affair — Two 
Favorite  Poems — Breezy  Meadows.  .s.  .  .  179 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

GREETINGS  AND  WELCOME  TO  EVERY  READER 
(KATE  SANBORN)         .         .         .     Frontispiece 

THE   STREET  FRONTING  THE   SANBORN  HOME 
AT  HANOVER,  N.  H 34 

MRS.  ANNE  C.  LYNCH  BOTTA  ...       78 

PRESIDENT  BARNARD  OF  COLUMBIA  COLLEGE  .  92 
PROFESSOR  R.  OGDEN  DOREMUS  ...  98 

SOPHIA  SMITH 122 

PETER  MACQUEEN  .....  182 
SAM  WALTER  Foss  .  .  .  .  .188 
PINES  AND  SILVER  BIRCHES  ....  202 
PADDLING  IN  CHICKEN  BROOK  .  .  .  204 
THE  ISLAND  WHICH  WE  MADE  .  .  .206 
TAKA'S  TEA  HOUSE  AT  LILY  POND  .  .  208 

vii 


viii  Illustrations 

PAGE 

THE  LOOKOUT       .        .        .        .        .         .  210 

THE  SWITCH          .         .         .         .         .         .  214 

How  VINES  GROW  AT  BREEZY  MEADOWS          ,  216 

GRAND  ELM  (OVER  Two  HUNDRED  YEARS  OLD)  218 


MEMORIES  AND  ANECDOTES 


Memories  and  Anecdotes 


CHAPTER  I 

My  Early  Days — Odd  Characters  in  our  Village-^-'Distifiguished 
Visitors  to  Dartmouth — Two  Story  Tellers  ofrHMSdVpr-- 
A  "  Beacon  Light"  and  a  Master  of  Synonyms- --A  Day  with 
Bryant  in  his  Country  Home — A  Wedding  Trip  to  the  White 
Mountains  in  1826  in  "A  One  Hoss  Shay" — A  Great  Career 
which  Began  in  a  Country  Store. 

I  MAKE  no  excuse  for  publishing  these  memories. 
Realizing  that  I  have  been  so  fortunate  as  to  know 
an  unusual  number  of  distinguished  men  and 
women,  it  gives  me  pleasure  to  share  this  privilege 
with  others. 

One  summer  morning,  "long,  long  ago,"  a 
newspaper  was  sent  by  my  grandmother,  Mrs. 
Ezekiel  Webster,  to  a  sister  at  Concord,  New 
Hampshire,  with  this  item  of  news  pencilled  on  the 
margin : 

"Born  Thursday  morning,  July  II,  1839,  4.30 
A.M.,  a  fine  little  girl,  seven  pounds. " 

I  was  born  in  my  father's  library,  and  first  opened 


2  Memories  and  Anecdotes 

my  eyes  upon  a  scenic  wall-paper  depicting  the  Bay 
of  Naples ;  in  fact  I  was  born  just  under  Vesuvius — 
which  may  account  for  my  occasional  eruptions  of 
temper  and  life-long  interest  in  "Old  Time  Wall 
papers."  Later  our  house  was  expanded  into  a 
college  dormitory  and  has  been  removed  to  another 
site,  but  Vesuvius  is  still  smoking  placidly  in  the 
old  library. 

Min^.wasja  shielded,  happy  childhood — an  only 
.child 'for 'six, years — and  family  letters  show  that 
,*•'•.:  :•';  /"il.wAslVaiw'ays'and  for  ever  talking,"  asking  ques 
tions,  making  queer  remarks,  or  allowing  free 
play  to  a  vivid  imagination,  which  my  parents 
thought  it  wise  to  restrain.  Father  felt  called 
upon  to  write  for  a  child's  paper  about  Caty's 
Gold  Fish,  which  were  only  minnows  from  Mink 
Brook. 

"Caty  is  sitting  on  the  floor  at  my  feet,  chatter 
ing  as  usual,  and  asking  questions."  I  seem  to 
remember  my  calling  over  the  banister  to  an  as 
sembled  family  downstairs,  "Muzzer,  Muzzer,  I 
dess  I  dot  a  fezer,"  or  "Muzzer,  come  up,  I'se  dot 
a  headache  in  my  stomach. "  I  certainly  can  re 
call  my  intense  admiration  for  Professor  Ira  Young, 
our  next  door  neighbour,  and  his  snowy  pow,  which 
I  called  "pity  wite  fedders." 

As  years  rolled  on,  I  fear  I  was  pert  and  auda- 


Early  Days  3 

cious.  I  once  touched  at  supper  a  blazing  hot 
teapot,  which  almost  blistered  my  fingers,  and  I 
screamed  with  surprise  and  pain.  Father  ex 
claimed,  "  Stop  that  noise,  Caty. "  I  replied,  "  Put 
your  fingers  on  that  teapot — and  don't  kitikize." 
And  one  evening  about  seven,  my  usual  bedtime, 
I  announced,  "  I'm  going  to  sit  up  till  eight  tonight, 
and  don't  you  'spute."  I  know  of  many  children 
who  have  the  same  habit  of  questions  and  sharp 
retorts.  One  of  my  pets,  after  plying  her  mother 
with  about  forty  questions,  wound  up  with, 
"Mother,  how  does  the  devil's  darning  needle 
sleep?  Does  he  lie  down  on  a  twig  or  hang,  or 
how?"  "I  don't  know,  dear."  "Why,  mother, 
it  is  surprising  when  you  have  lived  so  many  years, 
that  you  know  so  little ! " 

Mr.  Higginson  told  an  absurd  story  of  an  inquisi 
tive  child  and  wearied  mother  in  the  cars  passing 
the  various  Newtons,  near  Boston.  At  last  the 
limit.  "  Ma,  why  do  they  call  this  West  Newton?" 
"Oh,  I  suppose  for  f un. ' '  Silence  for  a  few  minutes, 
then,  "Ma,  what  was  the  fun  in  calling  it  West 
Newton?" 

I  began  Latin  at  eight  years — my  first  book  a 
yellow  paper  primer. 

I  was  always  interested  in  chickens,  and  dosed 
all  the  indisposed  as: 


4  Memories  and  Anecdotes 

Dandy  Dick 

Was  very  sick, 

I  gave  him  red  pepper 

And  soon  he  was  better. 

In  spring,  I  remember  the  humming  of  our  bees 
around  the  sawdust,  and  my  craze  for  flower  seeds 
and  a  garden  of  my  own. 

Father  had  a  phenomenal  memory;  he  could 
recite  in  his  classroom  pages  of  Scott's  novels, 
which  he  had  not  read  since  early  youth.  He 
had  no  intention  of  allowing  my  memory  to  grow 
flabby  from  lack  of  use.  I  often  repeat  a  verse 
he  asked  me  to  commit  to  memory : 

In  reading  authors,  when  you  find 

Bright  passages  that  strike  your  mind, 

And  which  perhaps  you  may  have  reason 

To  think  on  at  another  season ; 

Be  not  contented  with  the  sight, 

But  jot  them  down  in  black  and  white; 

Such  respect  is  wisely  shown 

As  makes  another's  thought  your  own. 

Every  day  at  the  supper  table  I  had  to  repeat 
some  poetry  or  prose  and  on  Sunday  a  hymn,  some 
of  which  were  rather  depressing  to  a  young  person, 
as: 

Life  is  but  a  winter's  day ; 
A  journey  to  the  tomb. 


Early  Days  5 

And  the  vivid  description  of  "Dies  Irae": 

When  shrivelling  like  a  parched  scroll 
The  flaming  heavens  together  roll 
And  louder  yet  and  yet  more  dread 
Swells  the  high  Trump  that  wakes  the  dead. 

Great  attention  was  given  to  my  lessons  in 
elocution  from  the  best  instructors  then  known, 
and  I  had  the  privilege  of  studying  with  William 
Russell,  one  of  the  first  exponents  of  that  art. 
I  can  still  hear  his  advice:  "Full  on  the  vowels; 
dwell  on  the  consonants,  especially  at  the  close 
of  sentences;  keep  voice  strong  for  the  close  of 
an  important  sentence  or  paragraph."  Next,  I 
took  lessons  from  Professor  Mark  Bailey  of  Yale 
College ;  and  then  in  Boston  in  the  classes  of  Pro 
fessor  Lewis  B.  Monroe, — a  most  interesting,  prac 
tical  teacher  of  distinctness,  expression,  and  the 
way  to  direct  one's  voice  to  this  or  that  part  of  a 
hall.  I  was  given  the  opportunity  also  of  hearing 
an  occasional  lecture  by  Graham  Bell.  Later,  I 
used  to  read  aloud  to  father  for  four  or  five  hours 
daily — grand  practice — such  important  books  as 
Lecky's  Rationalism,  Buckle's  Averages,  Sir  Wil 
liam  Hamilton's  Metaphysics  (not  one  word  of 
which  could  I  understand),  Huxley,  Tyndall,  Dar 
win,  and  Spencer,  till  my  head  was  almost  too 
fuH  of  that  day's  "  New  Thought. " 


6  Memories  and  Anecdotes 

Judge  Salmon  P.  Chase  once  warned  me,  when 
going  downstairs  to  a  dinner  party  at  Edgewood, 
"For  God's  sake,  Kate,  don't  quote  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  tonight!"  I  realized  then  what  a  bore 
I  had  been. 

What  a  treat  to  listen  to  William  M.  Evarts  chat 
ting  with  Judge  Chase!  One  evening  he  affected 
deep  depression.  "I  have  just  been  beaten  twice 
at  '  High  Low  Jack '  by  Ben  the  learned  pig.  I 
always  wondered  why  two  pipes  in  liquid  measure 
were  called  a  hogshead;  now  I  know;  it  was  on 
account  of  their  great  capacity."  He  also  told 
of  the  donkey's  loneliness  in  his  absence,  as  re 
ported  by  his  little  daughter. 

I  gave  my  first  series  of  talks  at  Tilden  Seminary 
at  West  Lebanon,  New  Hampshire,  only  a  few 
miles  from  Hanover.  President  Asa  D.  Smith  of 
Dartmouth  came  to  hear  two  of  them,  and  after 
I  had  given  the  whole  series  from  Chaucer  to 
Burns,  he  took  them  to  Appleton  &  Company, 
the  New  York  publishers,  who  were  relatives  of 
his,  and  surprised  me  by  having  them  printed. 

I  give  an  unasked-for  opinion  by  John  G, 
Whittier: 

I  spent  a  pleasant  hour  last  evening  over  the  charm 
ing  little  volume,  Home  Pictures  of  English  Poets, 
which  thou  wast  kind  enough  to  send  me,  and  which 


Resting  under  Difficulties  7 

I  hope  is  having  a  wide  circulation  as  it  deserves.  Its 
analysis  of  character  and  estimate  of  literary  merit 
strike  me  as  in  the  main  correct.  Its  racy,  colloquial 
style,  enlivened  by  anecdote  and  citation,  makes  it 
anything  but  a  dull  book.  It  seems  to  me  admirably 
adapted  to  supply  a  want  in  hearth  and  home. 

I  lectured  next  in  various  towns  in  New  Hamp 
shire  and  Vermont ;  as  St.  Johnsbury,  where  I  was 
invited  by  Governor  Fairbanks ;  Bath,  New  Hamp 
shire,  asked  by  Mrs.  Johnson,  a  well-known  writer 
on  flowers  and  horticulture,  a  very  entertaining 
woman.  At  one  town  in  Vermont  I  lectured  at 
the  large  academy  there — not  much  opportunity 
for  rest  in  such  a  building.  My  room  was  just  off 
the  music  room  where  duets  were  being  executed, 
and  a  little  further  on  girls  were  taking  singing 
lessons,  while  a  noisy  little  clock-ette  on  my 
bureau  zigzagged  out  the  rapid  ticks.  At  the 
evening  meal  I  was  expected  to  be  agreeable,  also 
after  the  lecture  to  meet  and  entertain  a  few  friends. 
When  I  at  last  retired  that  blatant  clock  made  me 
so  nervous  that  I  placed  it  at  first  in  the  bureau 
drawer,  where  it  sounded  if  possible  louder  than 
ever.  Then  I  rose  and  put  it  way  back  in  a  closet ; 
no  hope;  at  last  I  partially  dressed  and  carried  it 
the  full  length  of  the  long  hall,  and  laid  it  down  to 
sleep  on  its  side.  And  I  think  that  depressed  it. 


8  Memories  and  Anecdotes 

In  the  morning,  a  hasty  breakfast,  because  a  dozen 
or  more  girls  were  waiting  at  the  door  to  ask  me  to 
write  a  "tasty  sentiment"  before  I  left,  in  their 
autograph  albums,  with  my  autograph  of  course, 
and  "something  of  your  own  preferred,  but  at 
any  rate  characteristic. " 

My  trips  to  those  various  towns  taught  me  to  be 
more  humble,  and  to  admire  the  women  I  met,  dis 
covering  how  seriously  they  had  studied,  and  how 
they  made  use  of  every  opportunity.  I  remember 
Somersworth,  New  Hampshire,  and  Burlington, 
Vermont.  I  lectured  twice  at  the  Insane  Asylum 
at  Concord,  New  Hampshire,  invited  by  Dr. 
Bancroft.  After  giving  my  "newspaper  wits" 
a  former  governor  of  Vermont  came  up  to  shake 
hands  with  me,  saying  frankly,  "Miss  Sanborn, 
your  lecture  was  just  about  right  for  us  lunatics." 
A  former  resident  of  Hanover,  in  a  closed  cell, 
greeted  me  the  next  morning  as  I  passed,  with  a 
torrent  of  abuse,  profanity,  and  obscenity.  She 
too  evidently  disliked  my  lecture.  Had  an  audi 
ence  of  lunatics  also  at  the  McLean  Insane  Asylum, 
Dr.  Coles,  Superintendent. 

I  think  I  was  the  first  woman  ever  invited  to 
make  an  address  to  farmers  on  farming.  I  spoke 
at  Tilton,  New  Hampshire,  to  more  than  three 
hundred  men  about  woman's  day  on  the  farm. 


Experiences  as  a  Nurse  9 

Insinuated  that  women  need  a  few  days  off  the 
farm.  Said  a  good  many  other  things  that  were 
not  applauded.  Farmers  seemed  to  know  nothing 
of  the  advantages  of  co-operation,  and  that  they 
were  as  much  slaves  (to  the  middlemen)  as  ever 
were  the  negroes  in  the  South.  They  even  tried 
to  escape  from  me  at  the  noise  of  a  dog-fight  out 
side.  I  offered  to  provide  a  large  room  for  social 
meetings,  to  stock  it  with  books  of  the  day,  and 
to  send  them  a  lot  of  magazines  and  other  reading. 
Not  one  ever  made  the  slightest  response.  Now 
they  have  all  and  more  than  I  suggested. 

When  but  seventeen,  I  was  sent  for  to  watch  with 
Professor  Shurtleff,  really  a  dying  man,  and  left 
all  alone  with  him  in  the  lower  part  of  the  house ; 
he  begged  about  2  A.M.  to  be  taken  up  and  placed 
in  a  rocking-chair  near  the  little  open  fire.  The 
light  was  dim  and  the  effect  was  very  weird.  His 
wig  hung  on  one  bedpost,  he  had  lost  one  eye, 
and  the  patch  worn  over  the  empty  eye  socket  had 
been  left  on  the  bureau.  My  anxiety  was  great 
lest  he  should  slip  from  the  chair  and  tip  into  the 
fire.  I  note  this  to  mark  the  great  change  since 
that  time.  Neighbours  are  not  now  expected  to 
care  for  the  sick  and  dying,  but  trained  nurses  are 
always  sought,  and  most  of  them  are  noble  heroines 
in  their  profession. 


io  Memories  and  Anecdotes    . 

Once  also  I  watched  with  a  poor  woman  who  was 
dying  with  cancer.  I  tried  it  for  two  nights,  but 
the  remark  of  her  sister,  as  I  left  utterly  worn  out, 
''Some  folks  seem  to  get  all  their  good  things 
in  this  life,"  deterred  me  from  attempting  it 
again. 

Started  a  school  a  little  later  in  the  ell  of  our 
house  for  my  friends  among  the  Hanover  children 
— forty-five  scholars  in  all.  Kept  it  going  suc 
cessfully  for  two  years. 

I  dislike  to  tell  a  story  so  incredible  and  so 
against  myself  as  this.  One  evening  father  said, 
"I  am  going  to  my  room  early  tonight,  Katie; 
do  not  forget  to  lock  the  back  door. "  I  sat  read 
ing  until  quite  late,  then  retired.  About  2.30 
A.M.,  I  was  startled  to  hear  someone  gently  open 
that  back  door,  then  take  off  boots  and  begin  to 
softly  ascend  the  stairs,  which  stopped  only  the 
width  of  a  narrow  hall  from  my  room.  I  have 
been  told  that  I  said  in  trembling  tones,  "You're 
trying  to  keep  pretty  quiet  down  there."  Next 
moment  I  was  at  the  head  of  the  stairs ;  saw  a  man 
whom  I  did  not  recognize  on  the  last  step  but  one. 
I  struck  a  heavy  blow  on  his  chest,  saying,  "Go 
down,  sir,"  and  down  he  tumbled  all  the  way, 
his  boots  clanking  along  by  themselves.  Then 
the  door  opened,  my  burglar  disappeared,  and  I 


An  Awful  Mistake  n 

went  down  and  locked  the  back  door  as  I  had 
promised  father  I  would.  I  felt  less  proud  of  my 
physical  prowess  and  real  courage  when  my  atten 
tion  was  called  to  a  full  account  of  my  assault  in 
the  college  papers  of  the  day.  The  young  man  was 
not  rooming  at  our  house,  but  coming  into  town 
quite  late,  planned  to  lodge  with  a  friend  there. 
He  threw  gravel  at  this  young  man's  window  in  the 
third  story  to  waken  him,  and  failing  thought  at 
last  he  would  try  the  door,  and  if  not  locked  he 
would  creep  up,  and  disturb  no  one.  But  "Miss 
Sanborn  knocked  a  man  all  the  way  downstairs" 
was  duly  announced.  I  then  realized  my  awful 
mistake,  and  didn't  care  to  appear  on  the  street 
for  some  time  except  in  recitation  hours. 

The  second  time  I  lectured  in  Burlington,  I  was 
delayed  nearly  half  an  hour  at  that  dreadful 
Junction,  about  which  place  Professor  Edward  J. 
Phelps,  afterwards  Minister  to  England,  wrote  a 
fierce  rhyme  to  relieve  his  rage  at  being  compelled 
to  waste  so  much  precious  time  there.  I  recall 
only  two  revengeful  lines: 

"I  hope  in  hell  his  soul  may  dwell, 
Who  first  invented  Essex  Junction." 

Oh,  yes,  I  do  remember  his  idea  that  the  cemetery 
near  the  station  contained  the  bodies  of  many 


12  Memories  and  Anecdotes 

weary  ones  who  had  died  just  before  help  came  and 
were  shovelled  over. 

It  happened  that  Mrs.  Underwood,  wife  of  the 
demented  governor,  who  had  alluded  so  truthfully 
to  my  lecture,  was  in  the  audience,  and  being  gifted 
with  genuine  clairvoyant  powers,  she  rose  and 
begged  the  audience  not  to  disperse,  as  she  could 
distinctly  see  me  pacing  nervously  up  and  down 
the  platform  at  the  Junction  in  a  long  sealskin 
coat  and  hat  trimmed  with  band  of  fur.  I  arrived 
at  last  with  the  sealskin  and  the  hat,  proving  her 
correct,  and  they  cheered  her  as  well  as  myself. 

Our  little  village  had  its  share  of  eccentric  char 
acters,  as  the  old  man  who  was  impelled  by  the 
edict  of  the  Bible  to  cut  off  his  right  hand  as  it  had 
"offended  him."  But  lacking  surgical  facilities, 
the  effort  left  one  hand  hanging  limp  and  useless. 
His  long  white  beard,  how  truly  patriarchal ! 

Poor  insane  Sally  Duget — a  sad  story!  Her 
epitaph  in  our  cemetery  is  pathetic.  With  all  her 
woe  she  was  quick  at  repartee.  A  man  once  asked 
her,  "Shall  you  ever  marry,  Sally?'*  "Well,  yes, 
if  you  and  I  can  make  a  bargain. " 

Elder  Bawker  with  his  difficulties  in  loco 
motion. 

Rogers,  who  carried  the  students'  washing  home 
to  his  wife  on  Sunday  afternoons  for  a  preliminary 


Odd  Characters  13 

soak.  The  minister  seeing  him  thus  engaged, 
stopped  him,  and  inquired: 

''Where  do  you  think  you  will  go  to  if  you  so 
constantly  desecrate  the  Holy  Sabbath?" 

"  Guess  I'll  go  right  on  doing  laundry  work  for 
the  boys." 

The  aged  janitor  who,  in  a  brief  scare  about 
smallpox,  was  asked  if  he  had  ever  had  it:  "No, 
but  I've  had  chances. " 

An  old  sinner  who,  being  converted,  used  to 
serve  as  a  lay  evangelist  at  the  district  schoolhouse 
where  in  winter  religious  meetings  were  held. 
Roguish  lads  to  test  him  sprinkled  red  pepper,  a 
lot  of  it,  on  the  red  hot  stove.  He  almost  suffo 
cated,  but  burst  out  with:  "By  God,  there's  ene 
mies  to  religion  in  this  house !  Hist  the  winders ! " 

The  rubicund  butcher  of  that  period  (we  had  no 
choice)  was  asked  by  a  long-time  patron  how  he 
got  such  a  red  face.  "Cider  apple  sass."  The 
same  patron  said,  "You  have  served  me  pretty 
well,  but  cheated  me  a  good  deal. "  "Yes,  sir,  but 
you  have  no  idea  how  much  I've  cheated  you. " 

Our  one  milliner,  positively  brilliant  in  her 
remarks,  when  a  lady  sent  back  her  bonnet  twice 
on  the  ground  that  it  was  not  becoming,  said, 
"Remember  you  have  your  face  to  contend 
with." 


14  Memories  and  Anecdotes 

Our  only  and  original  gravedigger,  manager  in 
general  of  village  affairs. 

After  the  death  of  a  physician,  his  wife  gave 
a  stained-glass  window  to  the  Episcopal  Church 
of  St.  Luke,  the  beloved  physician.  She  asked 
Jason  if  he  liked  it.  He  said,  "It  don't  strike  me 
as  a  particular  speaking  likeness  of  Dr.  Tom. " 

To  one  of  the  new  professors  who  ventured  to 
make  a  few  suggestions,  "Who  be  yaou  anyway?" 

He  enjoyed  buttonholing  people  he  met  in  our 
"graveyard"  and  pointing  out  where  they  "must 
shortly  lie." 

Our  landlord — who  that  ever  saw  Horace  Frary 
could  forget  him?  If  a  mother  came  to  Hanover 
to  see  her  boy  on  the  2.30  P.M.  train,  no  meal 
could  be  obtained.  He  would  stand  at  the  front 
door  and  explain,  "Dinner  is  over  long  ago." 
He  cared  personally  for  about  thirty  oil  lamps  each 
day,  trimmed  the  wicks  with  his  fingers,  and  then 
wiped  them  on  his  trousers.  Also  did  the  carving 
standing  at  the  table  and  cleaning  the  dull  knife  on 
the  same  right  side — so  the  effect  was  startling. 
One  day  when  he  had  been  ill  for  a  short  time  his 
wife  said:  "Dr.  Dixi  Crosby  is  coming  this  way 
now,  I'll  call  him  in."  "Don't  let  him  in  now," 
he  begged,  "why  d it,  I'm  sick!" 

I  must  not  omit  the  strictly  veracious  witness 


Odd  Characters  15 

who  was  sworn  to  testify  how  many  students  were 
engaged  in  a  noisy  night  frolic  at  Norwich.  "As 
fur  as  I  know,  there  was  betwixt  six  and  seven." 

"Webb  Hall,"  who  today  would  figure  as  a 
"down  and  out, "  made  many  amusing  statements. 
"By  the  way  I  look  in  these  ragged  clothes,  you 
might  take  me  for  a  Democrat,  but  I'm  a  red  hot 
Republican. " 

He  was  obsessed  by  the  notion  that  he  had  some 
trouble  with  a  judge  in  Concord,  New  Hampshire. 
He  said  fiercely,  "I  will  buy  two  guns,  go  to  Con 
cord,  kill  Judge  Stanton  with  one,  and  shoot  my 
self  with  the  other,  or  else  wait  quietly  till  spring 
and  see  what  will  come  of  it."  A  possible  pre 
cursor  of  President  Wilson's  Mexican  policy. 

He  was  accused  by  a  woman  of  milking  a  cow 
in  her  pasture;  pleaded  guilty,  but  added,  "I 
left  a  ten-cent  piece  on  the  fence. " 

An  East  Hanover  man  is  remembered  for  his 
cheek  in  slyly  picking  lettuce  or  parsley  in  the 
gardens  of  the  professors  and  then  selling  them  at 
the  back  door  to  their  wives. 

And  a  farmer  from  Vermont  who  used  to  sell 
tempting  vegetables  from  his  large  farm.  He  was 
so  friendly  he  cordially  greeted  the  ladies  who 
bought  from  him  with  a  kiss.  Grandmother 
evaded  this  attention  by  stating  her  age,  and  so 


i6  Memories  and  Anecdotes 

was  unmolested.  The  names  of  his  family  were 
arranged  in  alphabetical  order.  "Hannah  A., 
give  Miss  Kate  another  cup  of  coffee;  Noah  B., 
pass  the  butter;  Emma  C.,  guess  you  better  hand 
round  the  riz  biscuit. " 

Life  then  was  a  solemn  business  at  Hanover. 
No  dancing ;  no  cards ;  no  theatricals ;  a  yearly  con 
cert  at  commencement,  and  typhoid  fever  in  the 
fall.  On  the  Lord's  Day  some  children  were  not 
allowed  to  read  the  Youth's  Companion,  or  pluck 
a  flower  in  the  garden.  But  one  old  working 
woman  rebelled.  "I  ain't  going  to  have  my 
daughter  Frances  brought  up  in  no  super 
stitious  tragedy."  She  was  far  in  advance  of  her 
age. 

I  have  always  delighted  in  college  songs  from 
good  voices,  whether  sung  when  sitting  on  the  old 
common  fence  (now  gone)  at  the  "sing  out"  at 
the  close  of  the  year,  or  merrily  trolling  or  tra-la-la- 
ing  along  the  streets.  What  a  surprise  when  one 
glorious  moonlight  night  which  showed  up  the 
magnificent  elms  then  arching  the  street  before 
our  house — the  air  was  full  of  fragrance — I  was 
suddenly  aroused  by  several  voices  adjuring  me, 
a  lady  of  beauty,  to  awake.  I  was  bewildered — 
ecstatic.  This  singing  was  for  me.  I  listened 
intently  and  heard  the  words  of  their  song: 


Fickle  Serenaders  17 

Sweet  is  the  sound  of  lute  and  voice 
When  borne  across  the  water. 

Then  two  other  sweets  I  could  not  quite  catch, 
and  the  last  lines  sung  with  fervor : 

But  sweeter  still  is  the  charming  voice 
Of  Professor  Sanborn's  daughter. 

Two  more  stanzas  and  each  with  the  refrain : 

The  prettiest  girl  on  Hanover  Plain  is 
Professor  Sanborn's  daughter. 

Then  the  last  verse : 

Hot  is  the  sun  whose  golden  rays 

Can  reach  from  heaven  to  earth, 
And  hot  a  tin  pan  newly  scoured 

Placed  on  the  blazing  hearth, 
And  hot  a  boy's  ears  boxed  for  doing 

That  which  he  hadn't  orter, 
But  hotter  still  is  the  love  I  bear 

For  Professor  Sanborn's  daughter. 

with  chorus  as  before. 

I  threw  down  lovely  flowers  and  timidly  thanked 
them.  They  applauded,  sang  a  rollicking  fare 
well,  and  were  gone.  If  I  could  have  removed  my 
heart  painlessly,  I  believe  that  would  have  gone 
out  too.  They  had  gone,  but  the  blissful  memory ! 
I  leaned  on  the  window  sill,  and  the  moon  with  its 


1 8  Memories  and  Anecdotes 

bounteous  mellow  radiance  filled  my  room.  But 
listen,  hark!  Only  two  doors  beyond,  the  same 
voices,  the  same  melodious  tones,  and  alas,  yes, 
the  same  words,  every  verse  and  the  same  chorus — 
same  masculine  fervour — but  somebody  else's 
daughter. 

A  breakfast  comment:  "It's  a  terrible  nuisance 
this  caterwauling  in  the  middle  of  the  night  in 
front  of  the  house! "  For  once  I  was  silent. 

Many  distinguished  men  were  invited  to  Dart 
mouth  as  orators  at  commencement  or  on  special 
occasions,  as  Rufus  Choate,  Edward  Everett,  John 
G.  Saxe,  Wendell  Phillips,  Charles  Dudley  Warner, 
and  Dr.  Holmes,  whom  I  knew  in  his  Boston  study, 
overlooking  the  water  and  the  gulls.  By  the  way, 
he  looked  so  young  when  arriving  at  Hanover  for 
a  few  lectures  to  the  Medical  School  that  he  was 
asked  if  he  had  come  to  join  the  Freshman  class. 

There  were  also  Edwin  P.  Whipple,  the  essay 
ist,  and  Walt  Whitman,  who  was  chosen  one  year 
for  the  commencement  poet.  He  appeared  on  the 
platform  wearing  a  flannel  shirt,  square-cut  neck, 
disclosing  a  hirsute  covering  that  would  have 
done  credit  to  a  grizzly  bear;  the  rest  of  his  attire 
all  right.  Joaquin  Miller  was  another  genius  and 
original. 

Another  visitor  was  James  T.  Fields  of  Boston, 


Distinguished  Visitors  19 

the  popular  publisher,  poet,  author,  lecturer, 
friend,  and  inimitable  raconteur,  who  was  always 
one  of  my  best  friends. 

When  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fields  were  invited  to  Han 
over,  he  and  his  beautiful  wife  were  always  guests 
at  our  home.  Their  first  visit  to  us  was  an  epoch 
for  me.  I  worked  hard  the  morning  before  they 
were  to  arrive,  sweeping,  dusting,  polishing  silver, 
and  especially  brightening  the  large,  brass  andirons 
in  father's  library.  I  usually  scoured  with  rotten 
stone  and  oil,  but  on  this  great  occasion,  adopting 
a  receipt  which  I  had  happened  to  see  in  a  news 
paper,  I  tried  vinegar  and  powdered  pumice-stone. 
The  result  at  first  was  fine. 

I  had  barely  time  after  all  this  to  place  flowers 
about  the  house  and  dress,  and  then  to  drive  in  our 
old  carryall,  with  our  older  horse,  to  the  station  at 
Norwich,  just  across  the  Connecticut  River,  to 
meet  the  distinguished  pair  and  escort  them  to  our 
house.  As  I  heard  the  train  approaching,  and  the 
shrill  whistle,  I  got  nervous,  and  my  hands  trem 
bled.  How  would  they  know  me?  And  what  had 
I  better  say?  My  aged  and  spavined  horse  was 
called  by  father  "Rosinante"  for  Don  Quixote's 
bony  steed,  also  "Blind  Guide"  and  "Heathen 
Philosopher."  He  looked  it — and  my  shabby 
carryall!  But  the  train  was  snorting  for  a  stop, 


2O  Memories  and  Anecdotes 

and  the  two  guests  soon  came  easily  to  my  vehicle, 
and  Mr.  Fields  seemed  to  know  me.  Both  shook 
hands  most  cordially  and  were  soon  in  the  back 
seat,  full  of  pleasant  chat  and  the  first  exciting 
ordeal  was  over.  At  tea  table  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Fields  sat  on  either  side  of  father,  and  the  stories 
told  were  different  from  any  I  had  ever  heard.  I 
found  when  the  meal  was  over  I  had  not  taken  a 
mouthful.  Next  we  all  went  to  the  College  Church 
for  the  lecture,  and  on  coming  home  we  had  an 
evening  lunch.  All  ate  heartily  but  me.  I  ven 
tured  to  tell  one  story,  when  Mr.  Fields  clapped 
his  hands  and  said,  "  Delightful. "  That  was  food 
to  me !  I  went  to  bed  half  starved,  and  only  took 
enough  breakfast  to  sustain  life.  Before  they  left 
I  had  written  down  and  committed  to  memory 
every  anecdote  he  had  given.  They  have  never 
been  printed  until  now,  and  you  may  be  sure  they 
are  just  as  my  hero  told  them.  My  only  grief 
was  the  appearance  of  my  andirons.  I  invited 
our  guests  to  the  open  fire  with  pride,  and  the  brass 
was  covered  with  black  and  green — not  a  gleam  of 
shine. 

Often  Mr.  Fields's  jokes  were  on  himself — as  the 
opinion  of  a  man  in  the  car  seat  just  beyond  him, 
as  they  happened  to  be  passing  Mr.  Fields's  resi 
dence  on  the  Massachusetts  coast.  The  house  was 


A  Rare  Story-Teller  21 

pointed  out  on  " Thunderbolt  Hill"  and  his  com 
panion  said,  "How  is  he  as  a  lecturer?" 

"Well, "  was  the  response,  "he  ain't  Gough  by  a 
d d  sight." 

How  comically  he  told  of  a  country  druggist's 
clerk  to  whom  he  put  the  query,  "  What  is  the  most 
popular  pill  just  now?"  And  the  quick  answer, 
"  Schenk's — they  do  say  the  Craowned  Heads  is  all 
atakin'  of  'em!" 

Or  the  request  for  his  funniest  lecture  for  the 
benefit  of  a  hearse  in  a  rural  hamlet ! 

His  experience  in  a  little  village  where  he  and 
Mrs.  Fields  wanted  to  find  a  boarding-house: 
The  lady  of  the  house  demurred;  she  had  "got 
pretty  tired  of  boarders,"  but  at  last  capitulated 
with,  "Well,  I'll  let  you  come  in  if  you'll  do  your 
own  stretching."  This  proved  to  mean  no  wait 
ress  at  the  table. 

The  morning  after  their  arrival,  he  went  out  for 
a  long  walk  in  the  mountain  air,  and  returning 
was  accosted  by  his  host:  "I  see  you  are  quite  a 
predestinarian. "  As  he  was  resting  on  one  of  the 
wooden  chairs,  the  man  said:  "I  got  those  chairs 
for  piazzary  purposes, "  and  enlarged  on  the  trouble 
of  getting  good  help  in  haying  time:  "Why,  my 
neighbour,  Jake  Stebbins,  had  a  boy  in  his  gang 
named  Henry  Ward  Beecher  Gooley.  He  was  so 


22  Memories  and  Anecdotes 

dreadful  pious  that  on  extra  hot  mornings  he'd  call 
'em  all  together  at  eleven  o'clock  and  ask  'em  to 
join  in  singing,  'Lord,  Dismiss  us  with  Thy 
Blessing.'" 

All  these  anecdotes  were  told  to  me  by  Mr. 
Fields  and  I  intend  to  give  only  those  memories 
which  are  my  own. 

Mr.  Fields  was  wonderfully  kind  to  budding 
authors.  Professor  Brown  sent  him,  without  my 
knowledge,  my  two-column  appreciation  of  dear 
Tom  Hood,  after  his  memorials  were  written  by 
his  son  and  daughter.  And  before  many  weeks 
came  a  box  of  his  newest  books  for  me,  with  a  little 
note  on  finest  paper  and  wide  margin,  "hoping 
that  your  friendship  may  always  be  continued 
towards  our  house. " 

I  cannot  speak  of  Mr.  Fields  and  fail  to  pay  my 
tribute  of  loving  admiration  to  his  wife,  Annie 
Fields.  When  I  first  met  that  lady  in  her  home  at 
148  Charles  Street,  she  was  so  exquisitely  dainty, 
refined,  spirituelle,  and  beautiful,  I  felt,  as  I  ex 
pressed  it,  "square-toed  and  common."  She  was 
sincerely  cordial  to  all  who  were  invited  to  that 
sacred  shrine;  she  was  the  perfect  hostess  and 
housekeeper,  the  ever-busy  philanthropist,  a  classic 
poet,  a  strong  writer  of  prose  when  eager  to  aid 
some  needed  reform.  Never  before  had  I  seen 


Literary  Treasures  23 

such  a  rare  combination  of  the  esthetic  and  prac 
tical,  and  she  shone  wherever  placed.  Once  when 
she  was  with  us,  I  went  up  to  her  room  to  see  if 
I  could  help  her  as  she  was  leaving.  She  was 
seated  on  the  floor,  pulling  straps  tightly  round 
some  steamer  rugs  and  a  rainy  day  coat,  and  she 
explained  she  always  attended  to  such  "little 
things. "  As  one  wrote  of  her,  after  her  death,  she 
made  the  most  of  herself,  but  she  made  more  of 
her  husband.  Together  they  went  forward,  side 
by  side,  to  the  last,  comrades  and  true  lovers. 

Two  of  all  the  wonderful  literary  treasures  in 
their  drawing-room  produced  a  great  impression 
on  me,  one  a  caricature  of  Thackeray's  face  done 
by  himself  with  no  mercy  shown  to  his  flattened, 
broken  nose.  A  lady  said  to  him:  "There  is  only 
one  thing  about  you  I  could  never  get  over,  your 
nose."  "No  wonder,  madam,  there  is  no  bridge 
to  it."  The  other  was  an  invitation  to  supper  in 
Charles  Lamb's  own  writing,  and  at  the  bottom  of 
the  page,  "Puns  at  nine." 

Two  famous  story-tellers  of  the  old-fashioned 
type  were  Doctor  Dixi  Crosby  of  Hanover,  and 
his  son  "  Ben,"  who  made  a  great  name  for  himself 
in  New  York  City  as  a  surgeon,  and  also  as  a 
brilliant  after-dinner  speaker.  Doctor  Crosby's 
preference  was  for  the  long-drawn-out  style,  as 


24  Memories  and  Anecdotes 

this  example,  which  I  heard  him  tell  several  times, 
shows : 

A  man  gave  a  lecture  in  a  New  England  town 
which  failed  to  elicit  much  applause  and  this 
troubled  him.  As  he  left  early  next  morning  on 
the  top  of  the  stage-coach,  he  interviewed  the 
driver,  who  seemed  not  anxious  to  talk.  "Did 
you  hear  much  said  about  my  lecture  last  night? 
Do  you  think  it  pleased  the  audience  ?" 

" Oh,  I  guess  they  were  well  enough  satisfied; 
some  were  anyway. " 

' '  Were  there  any  who  expressed  dissatisfaction  ?  " 

"I  would  not  pry  into  it,  stranger;  there  wasn't 
much  said  against  it  anyhow. " 

"Now  you  have  aroused  my  curiosity.  I  must 
beg  you  to  let  me  know.  Who  criticized  it,  and 
what  did  they  say?  It  might  help  me  to  hear  it. " 

"Well,  Squire  Jones  was  the  man;  he  does  not 
say  much  one  way  or  other.  But  I'll  tell  you  he 
always  gets  the  gist  of  it." 

"And  what  was  his  verdict?" 

"  If  you  must  know,  Squire  Jones  he  said,  said  he, 
he  thought  'twas — awful  shaller. " 
/  Doctor  Ben's  Goffstown  Muster  was  a  quicker 
tempo  and  had  a  better  climax.  'Twas  the  great  oc 
casion  of  the  annual  military  reviews.  He  graphi 
cally  described  boys  driving  colts  hardly  broken; 


A  "Beacon  Light''  25 

mothers  nursing  babies,  very  squally;  girls  and 
their  beaux  sitting  in  the  best  wagon  holding  hands 
and  staring  about  (as  Warner  said  to  me,  "  Young 
love  in  the  country  is  a  solemn  thing") ;  the  booths 
for  sale  of  ginger  bread,  peanuts,  cider,  candies,  and 
popcorn ;  the  marshal  of  the  day  dashing  here  and 
there  on  his  prancing  steed.  All  was  excitement, 
great  crowds,  and  the  blare  of  the  band.  Suddenly 
an  aged  pair,  seemingly  skeletons,  so  bony  and 
wan  were  they,  were  seen  tottering  toward  the 
fence,  where  they  at  last  stopped.  They  had  come 
from  the  direction  of  the  graveyard.  The  marshal 
rushed  forward  calling  out,  " Go  back,  go  back; 
this  is  not  the  general  resurrection,  it  is  only  the 
GofTstown  Muster." 

Doctor  Ben  Crosby  was  one  of  the  most  admir 
able  mimics  ever  known  and  without  a  suspicion 
of  ill-nature.  Sometimes  he  would  call  on  us 
representing  another  acquaintance,  who  had  just 
left,  so  perfectly  that  the  gravest  and  stiffest  were 
in  danger  of  hysterics.  This  power  his  daughter 
inherited. 

John  Lord,  the  historical  lecturer,  was  always  a 
"beacon  light"  (which  was  the  name  he  gave  his 
lectures  when  published)  as  he  discussed  the 
subjects  and  persons  he  took  for  themes  before 
immense  audiences  everywhere.  His  conversa- 


26          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

tion  was  also  intensely  interesting.  He  was  a 
social  lion  and  a  favourite  guest.  His  lectures 
have  still  a  large  annual  sale — no  one  who  once 
knew  him  or  listened  to  his  pyrotechnic  climaxes 
could  ever  forget  him  or  them.  It  was  true  that 
he  made  nine  independent  and  distinct  motions 
simultaneously  in  his  most  intense  delivery. 
I  once  met  him  going  back  to  his  rooms  at  his  hotel 
carrying  a  leather  bag.  He  stopped,  opened  it, 
showing  a  bottle  of  Scotch  whiskey,  and  explained 
"  I  am  starting  in  on  a  lecture  on  Moses. "  There 
was  a  certain  simplicity  about  the  man.  Once 
when  his  right  arm  was  in  a  sling,  broken  by  a  fall 
from  a  horse,  he  offered  prayer  in  the  old  church. 
And  unable  to  use  his  arm  as  usual,  he  so  balanced 
his  gyrations  that  he  in  some  way  drifted  around 
until  when  he  said  "Amen"  his  face  fronted  the 
whitewashed  wall  back  of  his  pulpit.  He  turned 
to  the  minister  standing  by  him,  saying  in  a  very 
audible  whisper,  "Do  you  think  anybody  noticed 
it?" 

He  was  so  genuinely  hospitable  that  when  a 
friend  suddenly  accepted  his  "come  up  any  time" 
invitation,  he  found  no  one  at  home  but  the  doctor, 
who  proposed  their  killing  a  chicken.  Soon  one 
was  let  out,  but  she  evaded  her  pursuers.  "You 
shoo,  and  I'll  catch,"  cried  the  kind  host,  but 


A  Master  of  Synonyms  27 

shrank  back  as  the  fowl  came  near,  exclaiming: 
"Say,  West,  has  a  hen  got  teeth?"  At  last  they 
conquered,  plucked,  and  cooked  her  for  a  somewhat 
tardy  meal,  with  some  potatoes  clawed  up  in  the 
potato  field.  Once,  when  very  absent-minded,  at 
a  hotel  table  in  a  country  tavern,  the  waitress  was 
astonished  to  watch  him  as  he  took  the  oil  cruet 
from  the  castor  and  proceeded  to  grease  his  boots. 

Doctor  John  Ordronaux,  Professor  of  Medical 
Jurisprudence  at  Dartmouth  and  various  other 
colleges  and  medical  schools,  was  another  erudite 
scholar,  who  made  a  permanent  impression  on  all 
he  met.  While  yet  at  college,  his  words  were  so 
unusual  and  his  vocabulary  so  full  that  a  wag  once 
advertised  on  the  bulletin  board  on  the  door  of 
Dartmouth  Hall,  "Five  hundred  new  adjectives 
by  John  Ordronaux.'* 

He  was  haunted  by  synonyms,  and  told  me  they 
interfered  with  his  writing,  so  many  clamouring 
for  attention.  He  was  a  confirmed  bachelor  with 
very  regular  habits;  wanted  his  bed  to  be  left 
to  air  the  entire  day,  he  to  make  it  himself  at 
precisely  5.30  P.M.,  or  as  near  as  possible.  His 
walk  was  peculiar,  with  knees  stiffly  bent  out  and 
elbows  crooked  as  if  to  repel  all  feminine  aggression, 
"a  progressive  porcupine"  as  someone  described 
his  gait.  His  hour  for  retiring  was  always  the 


28          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

same;  when  calling  leaving  about  9.30.  Rallied 
about  his  methodical  habits,  he  was  apt  to  men 
tion  many  of  his  old  friends  who  had  indulged 
themselves  in  earthly  pleasures,  all  of  whom  he  had 
the  sad  pleasure  of  burying. 

He  was  a  great  admirer  of  my  mother  for  her 
loveliness  and  kind  interest  in  the  students;  after 
her  death  he  was  a  noble  aid  to  me  in  many  ways. 
I  needed  his  precautions  about  spreading  myself 
too  thin,  about  being  less  flamboyantly  loquacious, 
and  subduing  my  excessive  enthusiasm  and 
emotional  prodigality.  Once  after  giving  me  a 
drive,  he  kindly  said,  as  he  helped  me  out,  "I 
have  quite  enjoyed  your  cheerful  prattle."  Fact 
was,  he  had  monologued  it  in  his  most  sesqui 
pedalian  phraseology.  I  had  no  chance  to  say  one 
word.  He  had  his  own  way  of  gaining  magnetism ; 
believed  in  associating  with  butchers.  Did  you 
ever  know  one  that  was  anaemic,  especially  at 
slaughtering  time?  From  them  and  the  animals 
there  and  in  stables,  and  the  smell  of  the  flowing 
blood,  he  felt  that  surely  a  radiant  magnetism  was 
gained.  Those  he  visited  "thought  he  was  real 
democratic  and  a  pleasant  spoken  man."  He 
told  of  an  opportunity  he  once  had  for  regular 
employment,  riding  on  the  stage-coach  by  the  side 
of  a  farmer's  pretty  daughter.  She  suggested  that 


A  Day  with  Bryant  29 

he  might  like  a  milk  route,  and  "perhaps  father  can 
get  you  one. "  So  formal,  dignified,  and  fastidious 
was  he  that  this  seems  improbable,  but  I  quote  his 
own  account. 

Doctor  Ordronaux  visited  at  my  uncle's,  a 
physician,  when  I  was  resting  there  from  over 
work.  After  his  departure,  uncle  received  a  letter 
from  him  which  he  handed  to  me  saying,  "  Guess 
this  is  meant  for  you. "  I  quote  proudly : 

I  rejoice  to  have  been  permitted  to  enjoy  so  much  of 
Miss  Sanborn's  society,  and  to  discover  what  I  never 
before  fully  appreciated,  that  beneath  the  scintilla 
tions  of  a  brilliant  intellect  she  hides  a  vigorous  and 
analytic  understanding,  and  when  age  shall  have 
somewhat  tempered  her  emotional  susceptibilities 
she  will  shine  with  the  steady  light  of  a  planet,  reach 
ing  her  perihelion  and  taking  a  permanent  place  in 
the  firmament  of  letters. 

Sounds  something  like  a  Johnsonian  epitaph,  but 
wasn't  it  great? 

I  visited  his  adopted  mother  at  Roslyn,  Long 
Island,  and  they  took  me  to  a  Sunday  dinner  with 
Bryant  at  "  Cedarmere, "  a  fitting  spot  for  a  poet's 
home.  The  aged  poet  was  in  vigorous  health, 
mind  and  body.  Going  to  his  library  he  took 
down  an  early  edition  of  his  Thanatopsis,  point 
ing  out  the  nineteen  lines  written  some  time 


30  Memories  and  Anecdotes 

before  the  rest.  Mottoes  hung  on  the  wall  such 
as  "As  thy  days  so  shall  thy  strength  be."  I 
ventured  to  ask  how  he  preserved  such  vitality, 
and  he  said,  "  I  owe  a  great  deal  to  daily  air  baths 
and  the  flesh  brush,  plenty  of  outdoor  air  and  open 
fireplaces."  What  an  impressive  personality; 
erect,  with  white  hair  and  long  beard;  his  eye 
brows  looked  as  if  snow  had  fallen  on  them.  His 
conversation  was  delightfully  informal.  "What 
does  your  name  mean?"  he  inquired,  and  I  had  to 
say,  "I  do  not  know,  it  has  changed  so  often," 
and  asked,  "What  is  the  origin  of  yours?"  "Bri- 
ant — brilliant,  of  course."  He  told  the  butler 
to  close  the  door  behind  me  lest  I  catch  cold  from 
a  draught,  quoting  this  couplet : 

When  the  wind  strikes  you  through  a  hole, 
Go  make  your  will  and  mind  your  soul ; 

and  informing  me  that  this  advice  was  found  in 
every  language,  if  not  dialect,  in  the  world.  He 
loved  every  inch  of  his  country  home,  was  interested 
in  farming,  flowers,  the  water-view  and  fish-pond, 
fond  of  long  walks,  and  preferred  the  simple  life. 
In  his  rooms  were  many  souvenirs  of  early  travel. 
His  walls  were  covered  with  the  finest  en 
gravings  and  paintings  from  the  best  American 
artists.  He  was  too  willing  to  be  imposed 


A  Wedding  Trip  in  1826          31 

upon  by  young  authors  and  would-be  poets. 
He  said:  ''People  expect  too  much  of  me,  alto 
gether  too  much."  That  Sunday  was  his  last 
before  his  address  on  Mazzini  in  Central  Park. 
He  finished  with  the  hot  sun  over  his  head,  and 
walking  across  the  park  to  the  house  of  Grant 
Wilson,  he  fell  down  faint  and  hopelessly  ill  on  the 
doorstep.  He  never  rallied,  and  after  thirteen 
days  the  end  came.  An  impressive  warning  to  the 
old,  who  are  selfishly  urged  to  do  hard  tasks,  that 
they  must  conserve  their  own  vitality.  Bryant 
was  eighty-four  when  killed  by  over-exertion,  with 
a  mind  as  wonderful  as  ever. 

I  will  now  recount  the  conditions  when  Ezekiel 
Webster  and  his  second  wife  took  their  wedding 
trip  in  a  "one  hoss  shay'*  to  the  White  Mountains 
in  1826. 

Grandma  lived  to  be  ninety-six,  with  her  mind 
as  clear  as  ever,  and  two  years  before  her  death  she 
gave  me  this  story  of  their  experiences  at  that  time. 
My  mother  told  me  she  knew  of  more  than  thirty 
proposals  she  had  received  after  grandfather's 
death,  but  she  said  "she  would  rather  be  the  widow 
of  Ezekiel  Webster,  than  the  wife  of  any  other 
man."  The  following  is  her  own  description. 

The  only  house  near  the  Crawford  Notch  was  the 
Willey  House,  in  which  the  family  were  living.  A 


32  Memories  and  Anecdotes 

week  before  a  slide  had  come  down  by  the  side  of  the 
house  and  obstructed  the  road.  Mr.  Willey  and  two 
men  came  to  our  assistance,  taking  out  the  horse  and 
lifting  the  carriage  over  the  debris. 

They  described  the  terrors  of  the  night  of  the  slide. 
The  rain  was  pouring  in  torrents,  the  soil  began  to 
slide  from  the  tops  of  the  rocks,  taking  with  it  trees, 
boulders,  and  all  in  its  way ;  the  crashing  and  thunder 
ing  were  terrible.  Three  weeks  later  the  entire  family, 
nine  in  number,  in  fleeing  to  a  place  of  refuge,  were 
overtaken  by  a  second  slide  and  all  buried. 

The  notch  was  then  as  nature  made  it;  no  steam 
whistle  or  car  clatter  had  intruded  upon  its  solitude. 
The  first  moving  object  we  saw  after  passing  through 
was  a  man  in  the  distance.  He  proved  to  be  Ethan 
Crawford,  who  kept  the  only  house  of  entertainment. 
He  was  walking  leisurely,  drawing  a  rattlesnake  along 
by  its  tail.  He  had  killed  the  creature  and  was  taking 
it  home  as  a  trophy.  He  was  a  stalwart  man,  who  had 
always  lived  among  the  mountains,  and  had  become 
as  familiar  with  the  wild  beasts  as  with  the  cat  and 
dog  of  his  own  home.  He  said  that  only  a  few  days 
before  he  had  passed  a  bear  drinking  at  a  spring.  He 
led  the  way  to  his  house,  a  common  farmhouse  with 
out  paint,  or  carpet,  or  cushioned  seat.  The  landlady 
was  spinning  wool  in  the  kitchen. 

Mr.  Crawford  supplied  the  table  when  he  could  by 
his  gun  or  fishing-rod;  otherwise  the  fare  was  meagre. 
When  asked  for  mustard  for  the  salt  meat,  they  said 
they  had  none,  at  least  in  the  house,  but  they  had  some 
growing. 

A  young  turkey  halted  about  in  the  dining-room 
gobbling  in  a  noisy  way,  and  the  girl  in  attendance 
was  requested  by  Mr.  Webster,  with  imperturbable 


A  Wedding  Trip  in  1826  33 

gravity,  either  to  kindly  take  it  out  or  to  bring  its 
companion  in,  for  it  seemed  lonely.  She  stood  in 
utter  confusion  for  a  minute,  then  seized  the  squawking 
fowl  and  disappeared. 

When  Mr.  Crawford  was  asked  if  ladies  ever  went 
up  Mount  Washington,  he  said  two  had  been  up,  and 
he  hoped  never  to  see  another  trying  it,  for  the  last 
one  he  brought  down  on  his  shoulders,  or  she  would 
have  never  got  down  alive. 

The  first  night  I  asked  for  a  change  of  bed  linen. 
No  attention  was  paid  to  my  request,  and  after  wait 
ing  a  long  time  I  found  the  landlady  and  asked  her 
if  she  would  have  the  sheets  changed.  She  straight 
ened  up  and  said  she  didn't  think  the  bed  would  hurt 
anybody,  for  only  two  ministers  from  Boston  had  slept 
in  it.  We  stayed  some  days  and  although  it  was  the 
height  of  the  season,  we  were  the  only  guests.  Noth 
ing  from  the  outside  world  reached  us  but  one  news 
paper,  and  that  brought  the  startling  news  of  the 
death  of  Adams  and  Jefferson  on  the  fourth  of  July, 
just  fifty  years  after  their  signing  the  Declaration  of 
Independence. 

The  large  leghorn  bonnet  which  Mrs.  Webster 
wore  on  that  eventful  journey  hangs  in  my  collec 
tion  of  old  relics.  She  told  me  it  used  to  hit  the 
wheel  when  she  looked  out .  And  near  it  is  her  dark- 
brown  "  calash, "  a  big  bonnet  with  rattans  stitched 
in  so  it  would  easily  move  back  and  forward.  Her 
winter  hood  was  of  dark  blue  silk,  warmly  wadded 
and  prettily  quilted. 

Who  would  not  wish  to  live  to  be  a  hundred  if 

3 


34  Memories  and  Anecdotes 

health  and  mental  vigour  could  be  retained? 
This  rare  old  lady  wrote  lively,  interesting  letters 
on  all  current  topics,  and  was  as  eager  to  win  at 
whist,  backgammon,  or  logomachy  as  a  child.  Her 
religion  was  the  most  beautiful  part  of  her  life, 
the  same  every  day,  self-forgetting,  practical 
Christianity.  She  is  not  forgotten ;  her  life  is  still 
a  stimulus,  an  inspiration,  a  benediction.  The 
love  and  veneration  of  those  who  gathered  about 
her  in  family  reunions  were  expressed  by  her 
nephew  Dr.  Fred  B.  Lund,  one  of  the  most  distin 
guished  surgeons  of  Boston: 

To  her  who  down  the  pathway  of  the  years 
Serene  and  calm  her  blessed  way  she  trod, 

Has  given  smiles  for  smiles,  and  tears  for  tears, 
Held  fast  the  good  in  life,  and  shown  how  God 

Has  given  to  us  His  servants  here  below, 
A  shining  mark  to  follow  in  our  strife, 

Who  proves  that  He  is  good,  and  makes  us  know 
Through  ten  decades  of  pure  and  holy  life 

How  life  may  be  made  sweeter  at  its  end, 
How  graces  from  the  seasons  that  have  fled 

May  light  her  eyes  and  added  glory  lend 
To  saintly  aureole  about  her  head. 

We  bring  our  Christmas  greeting  heartily, 
Three  generations  gathered  at  her  feet, 

Who  like  a  little  child  has  led,  while  we 

Have  lived  and  loved  beneath  her  influence  sweet. 


THE    STREET    FRONTING    THE    SANBORN    HOME    AT    HANOVER,    N.    H. 


Levi  Parsons  Morton  35 

Levi  Parsons  Morton,  born  at  Shoreham,  Ver 
mont,  May  1 6,  1824,  was  named  for  his  mother's 
brother,  Levi  Parsons,  the  first  American  mission 
ary  to  Palestine.  He  was  the  son  of  a  minister, 
Reverend  Daniel  Morton,  who  with  his  wife 
Lucretia  Parsons,  like  so  many  other  clergymen, 
was  obliged  to  exist  on  a  starvation  salary,  only 
six  hundred  dollars  a  year.  Among  his  ances 
tors  was  George  Morton  of  Battery,  Yorkshire, 
financial  agent  in  London  of  the  Mayflower.  Mr. 
L.  P.  Morton  may  have  inherited  his  financial 
cleverness  from  this  ancestor. 

After  studying  at  Shoreham  Academy,  he  entered 
a  country  store  at  Enfield,  Massachusetts,  and  was 
there  for  two  years,  then  taught  a  district  school, 
and  later  entered  a  general  store  at  Concord,  New 
Hampshire,  when  only  seventeen.  His  father  was 
unable  to  send  him  to  college,  and  Mr.  Estabrook, 
the  manager  of  the  store,  decided  to  establish  him 
in  a  branch  store  at  Hanover,  New  Hampshire, 
where  Dartmouth  College  is  located,  giving  him 
soon  afterward  an  interest  in  the  business.  Here 
he  stayed  until  nearly  twenty -four  years  old.  Mr. 
Morton  immediately  engaged  a  stylish  tailor  from 
Boston,  W.  H.  Gibbs,  or  as  all  called  him,  "Bill 
Gibbs,"  whose  skill  at  making  even  cheap  suits 
look  smart  brought  him  a  large  patronage  from  the 


36          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

college  students.  Once  a  whole  graduating  class 
were  supplied  with  dress  suits  from  this  artist. 
Mr.  Morton  had  a  most  interesting  store,  sunny 
and  scrupulously  clean,  with  everything  anyone 
could  ask  for,  and  few  ever  went  out  of  it  without 
buying  something,  even  if  they  had  entered  simply 
from  curiosity.  The  clerks  were  trained  to  be 
courteous  without  being  persistent.  Saturday  was 
bargain  day,  and  printed  lists  of  what  could  be 
obtained  on  that  day  at  an  absurdly  cheap  rate 
were  widely  distributed  through  the  neighbouring 
towns.  People  came  in  large  numbers  to  those 
bargains.  Long  rows  of  all  sorts  of  odd  vehicles 
were  hitched  up  and  down  the  street.  A  man 
would  drop  in  for  some  smoking  tobacco  and  buy 
himself  a  good  straw  hat  or  winter  cap.  A  wife 
would  call  because  soda  was  offered  so  cheaply  and 
would  end  by  buying  a  black  silk  dress,  "  worth 
one  dollar  a  yard  but  selling  for  today  only  for 
fifty  cents. "  Mr.  Morton  was  perhaps  the  original 
pioneer  in  methods  which  have  built  up  the  great 
department  stores  of  the  present  day.  If  he  had 
received  the  education  his  father  so  craved  for 
him  he  would  have  probably  had  an  inferior  and 
very  different  career. 

Mr.  Morton  greatly  enjoyed  his  life  at  Hanover; 
he  was  successful  and  looking  forward  to  greater 


Levi  Parsons  Morton  37 

openings  in  his  business  career.  My  father,  taking 
a  great  fancy  to  this  enterprising,  cheery  young 
man,  invited  him  to  dine  each  day  at  our  house  for 
nearly  a  year.  They  were  great  friends  and  had 
a  happy  influence  upon  each  other.  There  were 
many  jolly  laughs  and  much  earnest  talk.  He  met 
Miss  Lucy  Kimball  of  Flatlands,  Long  Island,  at 
our  house  at  a  Commencement  reception,  and 
they  were  soon  married.  She  lived  only  a  few 
years. 

Mr.  Morton  was  next  in  Boston  in  the  dry -goods 
house  of  James  Beebe  Morgan  &  Company,  and 
was  soon  made  a  partner.  Mr.  Morgan  was  the 
father  of  Pierpont  Morgan.  It  is  everlastingly  to 
Mr.  Morton's  honour  that  after  he  failed  in  business 
in  New  York  he  was  able  before  long  to  invite  his 
creditors  to  dinner,  and  underneath  the  service 
plate  of  each  creditor  was  a  check  for  payment  in 
full. 

Preferring  to  give  money  while  living,  his  whole 
path  has  been  marked  by  large  benefactions.  My 
memory  is  of  his  Hanover  life  and  his  friendship 
with  my  father,  but  it  is  interesting  to  note  the 
several  steps  in  his  career:  Honorary  Commis 
sioner,  Paris  Exposition,  1878;  Member  46th  Con 
gress,  1879-81,  Sixth  New  York  District;  United 
States  Minister  to  France,  1881-85;  Vice-Presi- 


38          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

dent  of  the  United  States,  1889-93;  Governor  of 
New  York,  1895-6. 

Mr.  Morton  recently  celebrated  at  his  Washing 
ton  home  the  ninety-first  anniversary  in  a  life  full 
of  honours,  and  what  is  more  important — of  honour. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  Friend  at  Andover,  Mass. — Hezekiah  Butterworth — A  Few  of 
my  Own  Folks — Professor  Putnam  of  Dartmouth — One 
Year  at  Packer  Institute,  Brooklyn — Beecher's  Face  in 
Prayer — The  Poet  Saxe  as  I  Saw  him — Offered  the  Use  of  a 
Rare  Library — Miss  Edna  Dean  Proctor — New  Stories  of 
Greeley — Experiences  at  St.  Louis. 

NEXT  a  few  months  at  Andover  for  music  lessons 
• — piano  and  organ.  A  valuable  friend  was  found 
in  Miss  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps,  who  had  just 
published  her  Gates  Ajar.  She  invited  me  to  her 
study  and  wanted  to  know  what  I  meant  to  accom 
plish  in  life  and  urged  me  to  write.  "I  have  so 
much  work  called  for  now  that  I  cannot  keep  up 
my  contributions  to  The  Youth's  Companion.  I 
want  you  to  have  my  place  there.  What  would 
you  like  to  write  about?" 

" Don't  know." 

"Haven't  you  anything  at  home  to  describe." 

"No." 

"Any  pets?" 

"Why  I  have  a  homely,  ordinary  dog,  but  he 
knows  a  lot. " 

And  so  I  was  roused  to  try  "Our  Rab  and  His 
39 


4o          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

Friends,"  which  was  kindly  mailed  by  Miss 
Phelps  to  Mr.  Ford,  the  editor,  with  a  wish  that  he 
accept  the  little  story,  which  he  did,  sending  a  wel 
come  check  and  asking  for  more  contributions. 
I  kept  a  place  there  for  several  years. 

In  Miss  Phelps 's  case,  one  must  believe  in  hered 
ity  and  partly  in  Huxley's  statement  that  "we  are 
automata  propelled  by  our  ancestors. ' '  Her  grand 
father,  Moses  Stuart,  was  Professor  of  Sacred 
Literature  at  Andover,  a  teacher  of  Greek  and 
Latin,  and  a  believer  in  that  stern  school  of 
theology  and  teleology.  It  was  owing  perhaps  to 
a  combination  of  severity  in  climatic  and  in  intel 
lectual  environment  that  New  England  developed 
an  austere  type  of  scholars  and  theologians. 
Their  mental  vision  was  focused  on  things  remote 
in  time  and  supernatural  in  quality,  so  much  so 
that  they  often  overlooked  the  simple  and  natural 
expression  of  their  obligation  to  things  nearby. 
It  sometimes  happened  that  their  tender  and  ami 
able  characteristics  were  better  known  to  learned 
colleagues  with  whom  they  were  in  intellectual 
sympathy,  than  to  their  own  wives  and  children. 
Sometimes  their  finer  and  more  lovable  qualities 
were  first  brought  to  the  attention  of  their  families 
when  some  distinguished  professor  or  divine  feel 
ingly  pronounced  a  funeral  eulogy. 


A  Friend  at  Andover  41 

It's  a  long  way  from  the  stern  Moses  Stuart,  who 
believed  firmly  in  hell  and  universal  damnation  and 
who,  with  Calvin,  depicted  infants  a  span  long 
crawling  on  the  floor  of  hell,  to  his  gifted  grand 
daughter,  who,  although  a  member  of  an  evangel 
ical  church,  wrote:  " Death  and  heaven  could 
not  seem  very  different  to  a  pagan  from  what  they 
seem  to  me.'*  Her  heart  was  nearly  broken  by 
the  sudden  death  of  her  lover  on  the  battlefield. 
"Roy,  snatched  away  in  an  instant  by  a  dreadful 
God,  and  laid  out  there  in  the  wet  and  snow — in  the 
hideous  wet  and  snow — never  to  kiss  him,  never 
to  see  him  any  more."  Her  Gates  Ajar  when  it 
appeared  was  considered  by  some  to  be  revolu 
tionary  and  shocking,  if  not  wicked.  Now,  we 
gently  smile  at  her  diluted,  sentimental  heaven, 
where  all  the  happy  beings  have  what  they  most 
want;  she  to  meet  Roy  and  find  the  same  dear 
lover ;  another  to  have  a  piano ;  a  child  to  get  ginger 
snaps.  I  never  quite  fancied  the  restriction  of 
musical  instruments  in  visions  of  heaven  to  harps 
alone.  They  at  first  blister  the  fingers  until  they 
are  calloused.  The  afflicted  washerwoman,  whose 
only  daughter  had  just  died,  was  not  in  the  least 
consoled  by  the  assurance  that  Melinda  was  per 
fectly  happy,  playing  a  harp  in  heaven.  "She 
never  was  no  musicianer,  and  I'd  rather  see  her 


42          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

a-settin*  by  my  tub  as  she  used  to  set  when  I  was 
a-wringin'  out  the  clothes  from  the  suds,  than 
to  be  up  there  a-harpinV  Very  different,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  were  the  instruments,  more  or  less 
musical,  around  which  New  England  families 
gathered  on  Sunday  evenings  for  the  singing  of 
hymns  and  "sacred  songs."  Yet  there  was  often 
real  faith  and  sincere  devotion  pedalled  out  of  the 
squeaking  old  melodeon. 

Professor  Stuart's  eldest  daughter,  Elizabeth 
Stuart,  married  Austin  Phelps  in  1842;  who  was 
then  pastor  of  Pine  Street  Church  in  Boston. 
Their  daughter  was  born  in  Boston  in  1844,  and 
named  Mary  Gray  Phelps.  They  moved  to 
Andover  in  1848,  where  two  sons  were  born.  Mrs. 
Phelps,  who  died  when  Mary  was  seven  years  old, 
was  bright,  interesting,  unusual.  She  wrote  Tales 
of  New  England,  chiefly  stories  of  clerical  life; 
also  Sunnyside  Sketches,  remarkably  popular  at 
the  time.  Her  nom  de  plume  was  ' '  Trusta. "  Pro 
fessor  Phelps  married  her  sister  Mary,  for  his 
second  wife.  She  lived  only  a  year,  and  it  was 
after  her  death  that  Mary  changed  her  name 
to  that  of  her  mother,  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps. 
Professor  Phelps  had  a  most  nervous  tempera 
ment,  so  much  so  that  he  could  not  sleep  if  a 
cricket  chirped  in  his  bedroom,  and  the  stamping 


Hezekiah  Butterworth  43 

of  a  horse  in  a  nearby  stable  destroyed  all  hope 
of  slumber. 

Miss  Phelps  inherited  her  mother's  talent  for 
writing  stories,  also  her  humour  and  her  sensitive, 
loving  nature,  as  is  seen  by  her  works  on  Temper 
ance  Reforms,  Abuses  of  Factory  Operators,  and  her 
arraignment  of  the  vivisectionist.  Later,  when 
I  was  living  at  the  " Abandoned  Farm,"  she  had 
a  liking  for  the  farm  I  now  own,  about  half  a  mile 
farther  on  from  my  first  agricultural  experiment. 
She  called  on  me,  and  begged  me  as  woman  for 
woman  in  case  she  bought  the  neighbouring  farm, 
to  seclude  all  my  animals  and  fowls  from  5  P.M.  till 
10  A.M.  each  morning,  as  she  must  get  her  sleep, 
for,  like  her  father,  she  was  a  life-long  sufferer 
from  insomnia.  I  would  have  done  this  if  it  were 
possible  to  repress  the  daybreak  cries  natural  to  a 
small  menagerie  which  included  chickens,  turkeys, 
ducks,  and  geese,  besides  two  peacocks  and  four 
guinea  fowls. 

But  to  return  to  the  Youth's  Companion.  When 
I  found  it  impossible  to  write  regularly  for  Mr. 
Ford,  he  made  a  change  for  the  better,  securing 
Mr.  Hezekiah  Butterworth,  a  poet,  historian,  and 
author  of  the  Zigzag  Series,  which  had  such  large 
sales.  Happening  to  be  in  Boston,  I  called  at  the 
office  and  said  to  Mr.  Ford:  "It  grieves  me  a  bit 


44          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

to  see  my  column  taken  by  someone  else,  and 
what  a  strange  pen  name — 'Hezekiah  Butter- 
worth.'" 

"But  that  is  his  own  name, "  said  the  editor. 
"Indeed ;  I  am  afraid  I  shall  hate  that  Hezzy. " 
"Well,  just  try  it;  come  with  me  to  his  work 


room." 


When  we  had  gone  up  one  flight,  Mr.  Ford 
opened  a  door,  where  a  gentle,  sweet-faced  young 
man  of  slender  build  was  sitting  at  a  table,  the 
floor  all  around  him  literally  strewn  with  at  least 
three  hundred  manuscripts,  each  one  to  be  ex 
amined  as  a  possible  winner  in  a  contest  for  a 
five-hundred-dollar  prize  story.  Both  English  and 
American  authors  had  competed.  He  was,  as 
De  Quincey  put  it,  "snowed  up. "  Then  my  friend 
said  with  a  laugh,  "Miss  Sanborn  has  come  to  see 
Hezzy  whom  she  fancies  she  shall  hate."  A 
painfully  awkward  introduction,  but  Mr.  Butter- 
worth  laughed  heartily,  and  made  me  very  wel 
come,  and  from  that  time  was  ever  one  of  my  most 
faithful  friends,  honouring  my  large  Thanksgiving 
parties  by  his  presence  for  many  years. 

I  shall  tell  but  two  stories  about  my  father  in  his 
classroom.  He  had  given  Pope's  Rape  of  the  Lock 
as  subject  for  an  essay  to  a  young  man  who  had  not 
the  advantage  of  being  born  educated,  but  did  his 


A  Few  of  My  Own  Folks  45 

best  at  all  times.  As  the  young  man  read  on  in 
class,  father,  who  in  later  years  was  a  little  deaf, 
stopped  him  saying,  "Sir,  did  I  understand  you 
to  say  Sniff?"  "No,  sir,  I  did  not,  I  said  Slyph." 

In  my  father's  Latin  classes  there  were  many  ab 
surd  mistakes,  as  when  he  asked  a  student,  "What 
was  ambrosia?"  and  the  reply  was,  "The  gods' 
hair  oil,"  an  answer  evidently  suggested  by  the 
constant  advertisement  of  "Sterling's  Ambrosia" 
for  the  hair. 

I  will  now  refer  to  my  two  uncles  on  my  father's 
side.  The  older  one  was  Dyer  H.  Sanborn,  a  noted 
educator  of  his  time,  and  a  grammarian,  publish 
ing  a  text-book  on  that  theme  and  honouring  the 
parts  of  speech  with  a  rhyme  which  began — 

A  noun's  the  name  of  anything, 
As  hoop  or  garden,  ball  or  swing; 
Three  little  words  we  often  see 
The  articles,  a,  an,  and  the. 

Mrs.  Eddy,  of  Christian  Science  fame,  spoke  of 
him  with  pride  as  her  preceptor.  He  liked  to  con 
stitute  himself  an  examining  committee  of  one 
and  visit  the  schools  near  him.  Once  he  found 
only  five  very  small  children,  and  remarked  ap 
provingly,  ' '  Good  order  here. "  He,  unfortunately, 
for  his  brothers,  developed  an  intense  interest  in 
genealogy,  and  after  getting  them  to  look  up  the 


46          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

family  tree  in  several  branches,  would  soon  an 
nounce  to  dear  brother  Edwin,  or  dear  brother 
John,  "the  papers  you  sent  have  disappeared; 
please  send  a  duplicate  at  once. " 

My  other  uncle,  John  Sewall  Sanborn,  graduated 
at  Dartmouth,  and  after  studying  law,  he  started 
for  a  career  in  Canada,  landed  in  Sherbrooke,  P.  Q., 
with  the  traditional  fifty  cents  in  his  pocket,  and 
began  to  practise  law.  Soon  acquiring  a  fine  prac 
tice,  he  married  the  strikingly  handsome  daughter 
of  Mr.  Brooks,  the  most  important  man  in  that 
region,  and  rose  to  a  position  on  the  Queen's 
Bench.  He  was  twelve  years  in  Parliament,  and 
later  a  "Mr.  Justice,"  corresponding  with  a 
member  of  our  Federal  Supreme  Court.  In  fact, 
he  had  received  every  possible  honour  at  his  death 
except  knighthood,  which  he  was  soon  to  have 
received. 

My  great-grandfather,  on  the  paternal  side,  was 
always  called  "Grandsir  Hook,"  and  Dr.  Crosby 
assured  me  that  I  inherited  my  fat,  fun,  and  asthma 
from  that  obese  person,  weighing  nearly  three 
hundred  pounds.  When  he  died  a  slice  had  to 
be  cut  off,  not  from  his  body,  but  from  the  side  of 
the  house,  to  let  the  coffin  squeeze  through.  I 
visited  his  grave  with  father.  It  was  an  immense 
elevation  even  at  so  remote  a  date.  David  San- 


Daniel  Webster  47 

born  married  his  daughter  Hannah  Hook,  after  a 
formal  courtship.  The  "love"  letters  to  "Hon 
oured  Madam'*  are  still  preserved.  Fortunately 
the  "honoured  madam"  had  inherited  the  sense 
of  humour. 

A  few  words  about  Mr.  Daniel  Webster.  I  re^ 
member  going  to  Marshfield  with  my  mother,  his 
niece,  and  sitting  on  his  knee  while  he  looked  over 
his  large  morning  mail,  throwing  the  greater  part 
into  the  waste  basket.  Also  in  the  dining-room  I 
can  still  recall  the  delicious  meals  prepared  by  an 
old-time  Southern  mammy,  who  wore  her  red  and 
yellow  turban  regally.  The  capital  jokes  by  his 
son  Fletcher  and  guests  sometimes  caused  the 
dignified  and  impressive  butler  to  rapidly  dart 
behind  the  large  screen  to  laugh,  then  soon  back 
to  duty,  imperturbable  as  before. 

The  large  library  occupied  one  ell  of  the  house, 
with  its  high  ceiling  running  in  points  to  a  finish. 
There  hung  the  strong  portraits  of  Lord  Ashburton 
and  Mr.  Webster.  At  the  top  of  his  own  picture 
at  the  right  hung  his  large  grey  slouch  hat,  so  well 
known.  In  the  next  room  the  silhouette  of  his 
mother,  and  underneath  it  his  words,  "My  excel 
lent  mother. "  Also  a  portrait  of  Grace  Fletcher, 
his  first  wife,  and  of  his  son  Edward  in  uniform. 
Edward  was  killed  in  the  Mexican  War. 


48          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

There  is  a  general  impression  that  Mr.  Webster 
was  a  heavy  drinker  and  often  under  the  influence 
of  liquor  when  he  rose  to  speak;  as  usual  there 
are  two  sides  to  this-  question.  George  Ticknor  of 
Boston  told  my  father  that  he  had  been  with  Web 
ster  on  many  public  occasions,  and  never  saw  him 
overcome  but  once.  That  was  at  the  Revere 
House  in  Boston,  where  he  was  expected  to  speak 
after  dinner.  "I  sat  next  to  him,"  said  Ticknor; 
"suddenly  he  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder  and 
whispered,  'Come  out  and  run  around  the  com 
mon.  ' '  This  they  did  and  the  speech  was  a  suc 
cess.  There  is  a  wooden  statue  of  Daniel  Webster 
that  has  stood  for  forty  years  in  Hingham,  Massa 
chusetts.  It  is  larger  than  life  and  called  a  good 
portrait.  It  was  made  more  than  sixty  years  ago 
as  a  figurehead  for  the  ship  Daniel  Webster  but 
never  put  on.  That  would  have  been  appropriate 
if  he  was  occasionally  half  seas  over.  Daniel's 
devotion  to  his  only  brother  "Zeke"  is  pleasant  to 
remember.  By  the  way,  there  are  many  men  who 
pay  every  debt  promptly  and  never  take  a  drop 
too  much,  who  would  be  proud  to  have  a  record 
for  something  accomplished  that  is  as  worth  while 
as  his  record.  When  Daniel  Webster  .entered 
Dartmouth  College  as  a  freshman  directly  from  his 
father's  farm,  he  was  a  raw  specimen,  awkward, 


Daniel  Webster  49 

thin,  and  so  dark  that  some  mistook  him  for  a  new 
Indian  recruit.  He  was  then  called  "  Black  Dan. " 
His  father's  second  wife  and  the  mother  of  Zeke  and 
Dan  had  decidedly  a  generous  infusion  of  Indian 
blood.  A  gentleman  at  Hanover  who  remembered 
Webster  there  said  his  large,  dark,  resplendent 
eyes  looked  like  coach  lanterns  on  a  dark  night. 

Mrs.  Ezekiel  Webster  told  me  that  her  husband 
asked  her  after  their  marriage  to  allow  his  mother 
to  come  home  to  them  at  Boscawen,  New  Hamp 
shire.  She  said  she  was  a  strikingly  fine-looking 
woman  with  those  same  marvellous  eyes,  long 
straight  black  hair,  high  cheekbones ;  a  tall  person 
with  strong  individuality.  Mrs.  Webster  was  sure 
where  the  swarthy  infusion  came  from.  This 
mother,  who  had  been  a  hard  worker  and  faithful 
wife,  now  delighted  in  sitting  by  the  open  fire 
evenings  and  smoking  an  old  pipe  she  had  brought 
with  her. 

Webster  saved  his  Alma  Mater,  and  after  the 
favourable  decision  on  the  College  Case,  Judge 
Hopkinson  wrote  to  Professor  Brown  of  Dart 
mouth  suggesting  an  inscription  on  the  doors  of 
the  college  building,  "Founded  by  Eleazer  Wheel- 
ock,  refounded  by  Daniel  Webster."  These 
words  are  now  placed  in  bronze  at  the  portals  of 
Webster  Memorial  Hall. 


50  Memories  and  Anecdotes 

To  go  back,  as  I  did,  from  Andover  to  Hanover, 
I  pay  my  tribute  to  Professor  John  Newton  Put 
nam,  Greek  Professor  at  Dartmouth.  His  char 
acter  was  perfect ;  his  face  of  rare  beauty  shone  with 
kind  and  helpful  thought  for  everyone.  I  see  him, 
as  he  talked  at  our  mid-week  meetings.  One 
could  almost  perceive  an  aura  or  halo  around  his 
classic  head;  wavy  black  hair  which  seemed  to 
have  an  almost  purple  light  through  it ;  large  dark 
eyes,  full  of  love.  What  he  said  was  never  per 
functory,  never  dull.  He  was  called  "John,  the 
Beloved  Disciple."  Still  he  was  thoroughly  hu 
man  and  brimming  over  with  fun,  puns,  and  ex 
quisitely  droll  humour,  and  quick  in  seeing  a 
funny  condition. 

It  is  said  that  on  one  occasion  when  there  hap 
pened  to  be  a  party  the  same  night  as  our  "Thurs 
day  evening  meeting,"  he  was  accosted  by  a 
friend  as  he  was  going  into  the  vestry  with  the 
inquiry,  "Are  you  not  to  be  tempted  by  the  social 
delights  of  the  evening?"  To  which  he  replied, 
"No,  I  prefer  to  suffer  affliction  with  the  people  of 
God,  rather  than  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  sin  for  a 
season."  The  college  inspector  reported  to  him 
that  he  was  obliged  to  break  into  a  room  at  college 
where  a  riot  was  progressing  and  described  a  negro's 
efforts  to  hide  himself  by  scurrying  under  the  bed. 


Professor  John  Newton  Putnam     51 

"But  how  unnecessary;  all  he  had  to  do  was 
to  keep  dark.'* 

Once  he  was  found  waiting  a  long  time  at  the 
counter  of  a  grocery  store.  A  friend  passing  said, 
"You've  been  there  quite  a  while,  Putnam." 

"Yes,  I'm  waiting  all  my  appointed  time  until 
my  change  doth  come." 

Expecting  "Help"  from  Norwich,  he  was  gazing 
in  that  direction  and  explained,  "I'm  looking  unto 
the  hills  whence  cometh  our  help." 

We  often  diverted  ourselves  at  his  home  with 
"Rounce, "  the  duplicate  of  euchre  in  dominoes. 
And  we  were  startled  by  a  Madonna  dropping 
to  the  floor,  leaving  its  frame  on  the  wall.  In 
stantly  Professor  Putnam  remarked:  "Her  will 
ing  soul  would  not  stay  'in  such  a  frame  as  this. ' ' 
And  when  called  to  preside  at  the  organ  when  the 
college  choir  was  away,  he  whispered  to  me, 
"Listen  to  my  interludicrous  performance." 

How  sad  the  end !  A  delicate  constitution  con 
quered  by  tuberculosis.  With  his  wife  he  sought 
a  milder  climate  abroad  and  died  there.  But  no 
one  can  compute  the  good  accomplished  even  by 
his  unconscious  influence,  for  everything  was  of 
the  purest,  highest,  best. 

Soon  after  my  return  from  St.  Louis,  I  received  a 
call  from  Packer  Institute  in  Brooklyn,  to  teach 


52          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

English  Literature,  which  was  most  agreeable. 
But  when  I  arrived,  the  principal,  Mr.  Crittenden, 
told  me  that  the  woman  who  had  done  that  work 
had  decided  to  remain.  I  was  asked  by  Mr. 
Crittenden,  "Can  you  read?"  "Yes,  I  think  so." 
"Then  come  with  me."  He  touched  a  bell  and 
then  escorted  me  to  the  large  chapel  capable  of 
holding  nearly  twelve  hundred,  where  I  found  the 
entire  faculty  assembled  to  listen  to  my  efforts. 
I  was  requested  to  stand  up  in  the  pulpit  and  read 
from  a  large  Bible  the  fourteenth  chapter  of  John, 
and  the  twenty-third  psalm.  That  was  easy 
enough.  Next  request,  "Please  recite  something 
comic. "  I  gave  them  "  Comic  Miseries."  "  Now 
try  a  little  pathos. "  I  recited  Alice  Gary's  "  The 
Volunteer,"  which  was  one  of  my  favourite  poems. 
Then  I  heard  a  professor  say  to  Mr.  Crittenden, 
"She  recites  with  great  taste  and  expression;  what 
a  pity  she  has  that  lisp ! "  And  hitherto  I  had  been 
blissfully  unaware  of  such  a  failing.  One  other 
selection  in  every-day  prose,  and  I  was  let  off. 
The  faculty  were  now  exchanging  their  opinions 
and  soon  dispersed  without  one  word  to  me.  I  said 
to  Mr.  Crittenden,  as  I  came  down  the  pulpit 
stairs,  "I  do  not  want  to  take  the  place." 
But  he  insisted  that  they  all  wanted  me  to  come 
and  begin  work  at  once.  I  had  large  classes, 


Packer  Institute  53 

number  of  pupils  eight  hundred  and  fifty.  It  was 
a  great  opportunity  to  help  young  girls  to  read  in 
such  a  way  that  it  would  be  a  pleasure  to  their 
home  friends,  or  to  recite  in  company,  as  was 
common  then,  naturally  and  without  gestures.  I 
took  one  more  class  of  little  girls  who  had  received 
no  training  before  in  that  direction.  They  were 
easy  to  inspire,  were  wholly  free  from  self-conscious 
ness,  and  their  parents  were  so  much  pleased  that 
we  gave  an  exhibition  of  what  they  could  do  in 
reading  and  recitation  in  combination  with  their 
gymnastics.  The  chapel  was  crowded  to  the 
doors.  A  plump  little  German  girl  was  the  star 
of  the  evening.  She  stood  perfectly  serene,  her 
chubby  arms  stuck  out  stiffly  from  her  sides, 
and  in  a  loud,  clear  voice  she  recited  this 
nonsense : 

If  the  butterfly  courted  the  bee, 

And  the  owl  the  porcupine ; 
If  churches  were  built  on  the  sea, 

And  three  times  one  were  nine; 
If  the  pony  rode  his  master, 

And  the  buttercups  ate  the  cows; 
And  the  cat  had  the  dire  disaster 

To  be  worried,  sir,  by  a  mouse; 
And  mamma,  sir,  sold  her  baby, 

To  a  gypsy  for  half  a  crown, 
And  a  gentleman  were  a  lady, 

This  world  would  be  upside  down. 


54          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

But,  if  any  or  all  these  wonders 

Should  ever  come  about, 
I  should  not  think  them  blunders, 

For  I  should  be  inside  out. 

An  encore  was  insisted  on. 

I  offered  to  give  any  in  my  classes  lessons  in 
"how  to  tell  a  story  "  with  ease,  brevity,  and  point, 
promising  to  give  an  anecdote  of  my  own  suggested 
by  theirs  every  time.  This  pleased  them,  and  we 
had  a  jolly  time.  The  first  girl  who  tried  to  tell 
a  story  said : 

I  don't  know  how;  never  attempted  any  such  thing, 
but  what  I  am  going  to  tell  is  true  and  funny. 

My  grandfather  is  very  deaf.  You  may  have  seen 
him  sitting  on  a  pulpit  stair  at  Mr.  Beecher's  church, 
holding  to  his  ear  what  looks  like  a  skillet.  Last 
spring  we  went  to  the  country,  house-hunting,  leaving 
grandfather  to  guard  our  home.  He  was  waked,  in 
the  middle  of  the  night  as  he  supposed,  by  a  noise, 
and  started  out  to  find  where  it  came  from.  It 
continued;  so  he  courageously  went  downstairs  and 
cautiously  opened  the  kitchen  door.  He  reached  out 
his  skillet-trumpet  before  him  through  the  partly 
opened  door  and  the  milkman  poured  in  a  quart  of 
milk. 

This  story,  I  am  told,  is  an  ancient  chestnut. 
But  I  used  to  see  the  deaf  grandfather  with  his 
uplifted  skillet  on  the  steps  of  Beecher's  pulpit, 

4 

and  the  young  lady  gave  it  as  a  real  happening  in 


Packer  Institute  55 

her  own  home.  Did  anyone  hear  of  it  before  1868 
when  she  gave  it  to  our  anecdote  class?  I  believe 
this  was  the  foundation  or  starter  for  similar 
skillet-trumpet  stories. 

The  girl  was  applauded,  and  deserved  it.  Then 
they  asked  me  for  a  milk  story.  I  told  them  of  a 
milkman  who,  in  answer  to  a  young  mother's 
complaint  that  the  milk  he  brought  for  her  baby 
was  sour,  replied:  "Well,  is  there  anything  outside 
the  sourness  that  doesn't  suit  you?"  And  Thor- 
eau  remarked  that  "  circumstantial  evidence  is 
sometimes  conclusive,  as  when  a  trout  is  found  in 
the  morning  milk." 

This  class  was  considered  so  practical  and  valu 
able  that  I  was  offered  pay  for  it,  but  it  was  a 
relief,  after  exhausting  work. 

We  had  many  visitors  interested  in  the  work  of 
the  various  classes.  One  day  Beecher  strolled 
into  the  chapel  and  wished  to  hear  some  of  the 
girls  read.  All  were  ready.  One  took  the  morning 
paper ;  another  recited  a  poem ;  one  read  a  selection 
from  her  scrapbook.  Beecher  afterward  inquired : 
"Whom  have  you  got  to  teach  elocution  now? 
You  used  to  have  a  few  prize  pumpkins  on  show, 
but  now  every  girl  is  doing  good  original  work." 
Mr.  Crittenden  warned  me  at  the  outset,  "Keep 
an  eye  out  or  they'll  run  over  you. "  But  I  never 


56          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

had  anything  but  kindness  from  my  pupils.  I 
realized  that  cheerful,  courteous  requests  were 
wiser  than  commands,  and  sincere  friendship  more 
winning  than  "Teachery"  primness.  I  knew  of 
an  unpopular  instructor  who,  being  annoyed  by 
his  pupils  throwing  a  few  peanuts  at  his  desk,  said, 
"  Young  men,  if  you  throw  another  peanut,  I  shall 
leave  the  room. "  A  shower  of  peanuts  followed. 

So,  when  I  went  to  my  largest  class  in  the  big 
chapel,  and  saw  one  of  my  most  interesting  girls 
sitting  on  that  immense  Bible  on  the  pulpit  looking 
at  me  in  merry  defiance,  and  kicking  her  heels 
against  the  woodwork  below,  I  did  not  appear  to 
see  her,  and  began  the  exercises,  hoping  fervently 
that  one  of  the  detectives  who  were  always  on  watch 
might  providentially  appear.  Before  long  I  saw 
one  come  to  the  door,  look  in  with  an  amazed  ex 
pression,  only  to  bring  two  of  the  faculty  to  release 
the  young  lady  from  her  uneasy  pre-eminence. 

I  hardly  knew  my  own  name  at  the  Packer 
Institute.  The  students  called  me  "Canary," 
I  suppose  on  account  of  my  yellow  hair  and  rather 
high  treble  voice;  Mr.  Crittenden  always  spoke  to 
me  as  Miss  "  Sunburn, "  and  when  my  laundry  was 
returned,  it  was  addressed  to  "Miss  Lampoon." 

Beecher  was  to  me  the  clerical  miracle  of  his 
age — a  man  of  extraordinary  personal  magnetism, 


Henry  Ward  Beecher  57 

with  power  to  rouse  laughter  and  right  away  compel 
tears,  I  used  to  listen  often  to  his  marvellous  ser 
mons.  I  can  see  him  now  as  he  went  up  the  middle 
aisle  in  winter  wearing  a  clumsy  overcoat,  his  face 
giving  the  impression  of  heavy,  coarse  features, 
thick  lips,  a  commonplace  nose,  eyes  that  lacked 
expression,  nothing  to  give  any  idea  of  the  man  as 
he  would  look  after  the  long  prayer.  When  the 
audience  reverently  bowed  their  heads  my  own 
eyes  were  irresistibly  drawn  toward  the  preacher. 
For  he  prayed  as  if  he  felt  that  he  was  addressing 
an  all-powerful,  omnipresent,  tender,  loving  Heav 
enly  Father  who  was  listening  to  his  appeal.  And 
as  he  went  on  and  on  with  increasing  fervour  and 
power  a  marvellous  change  transfigured  that  heavy 
face,  it  shone  with  a  white  light  and  spiritual  feeling, 
as  if  he  fully  realized  his  communion  with  God  Him 
self.  I  used  to  think  of  that  phrase  in  Matthew : 

"  And  was  transfigured  before  them, 
And  his  face  did  shine  as  the  sun." 

I  never  heard  anyone  mention  this  marvellous 
transformation.  But  I  remember  that  Beecher 
once  acknowledged  to  a  reporter  that  he  never 
knew  what  he  had  said  in  his  sermon  until  he 
looked  at  the  resum6  in  Monday's  paper. 

During  the  hard  days  of  Beecher's  trial  a  lady 


58          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

who  was  a  guest  at  the  house  told  me  she  was 
waked  one  morning  by  the  merry  laughter  of 
Beecher's  little  grandchildren  and  peeping  into 
their  room  found  Mr.  Beecher  having  a  jolly 
frolic  with  them.  He  was  trying  to  get  them 
dressed ;  his  efforts  were  most  comical,  putting  on 
their  garments  wrong  side  out  or  buttoning  in 
front  when  they  were  intended  to  fasten  in  the 
back,  and  "funny  Grandpa"  enjoying  it  all  quite 
as  sincerely  as  these  little  ones.  A  pretty  picture. 

Saxe  (John  Godfrey)  called  during  one  recess 
hour.  The  crowds  of  girls  passing  back  and  forth 
interested  him,  as  they  seemed  to  care  less  for  eat 
ing  than  for  wreathing  their  arms  round  each  other, 
with  a  good  deal  of  kissing,  and  ' 'deary,"  "per 
fectly  lovely,"  etc.  He  described  his  impressions 
in  two  words:  "Unconscious  rehearsing." 

Once  he  handed  me  a  poem  he  had  just  dashed 
off  written  with  pencil,  "To  my  Saxon  Blonde." 
I  was  surprised  and  somewhat  flattered,  regarding 
it  as  a  complimentary  impromptu.  But,  on  look 
ing  up  his  poetry  in  the  library,  I  found  the  same 
verses  printed  years  before : 

"  If  bards  of  old  the  truth  have  told, 

The  sirens  had  raven  hair ; 
But  ever  since  the  earth  had  birth, 
They  paint  the  angels  fair." 


John  Godfrey  Saxe  59 

Probably  that   was  a  habit   with  him. 

When  a  friend  joked  him  about  his  very-much- 
at-home  manner  at  the  United  States  Hotel  at 
Saratoga,  where  he  went  every  year,  saying  as 
they  sat  together  on  the  upper  piazza,  "Why, 
Saxe,  I  should  fancy  you  owned  this  hotel,"  he 
rose,  and  lounging  against  one  of  the  pillars  an 
swered,  "Well,  I  have  a  'lien'  on  this  piazza.11 

His  epigrams  are  excellent.  He  has  made  more 
and  better  than  any  American  poet.  In  Dodd's 
large  collection  of  the  epigrams  of  the  world,  I 
think  there  are  six  at  least  from  Saxe.  Let  me 
quote  two : 

AN   EQUIVOCAL  APOLOGY 

Quoth  Madame  Bas-Bleu,  "I  hear  you  have  said 
Intellectual  women  are  always  your  dread ; 

Now  tell  me,  dear  sir,  is  it  true?" 
"Why,  yes,"  answered  Tom,  "very  likely  I  may 
Have  made  the  remark  in  a  jocular  way ; 

But  then  on  my  honour,  I  didn't  mean  you!" 

TOO  CANDID   BY  HALF 

As  John  and  his  wife  were  discoursing  one  day 
Of  their  several  faults,  in  a  bantering  way, 

Said  she,  "Though  my  wit  you  disparage, 
I'm  sure,  my  dear  husband,  our  friends  will  attest 
This  much,  at  the  least,  that  my  judgment  is  best." 

Quoth  John,  "So  they  said  at  our  marriage." 


60          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

When  Saxe  heard  of  a  man  in  Chicago  who  threw 
his  wife  into  a  vat  of  boiling  hog's  lard,  he  re 
marked:  "Now,  that's  what  I  call  going  too  far 
with  a  woman." 

After  a  railroad  accident,  in  which  he  received 
some  bruises,  I  said :  "You  didn't  find  riding  on  the 
rails  so  pleasant?"  "Not  riding  on,  but  riding  off 
the  rail  was  the  trouble. " 

He  apostrophized  the  unusually  pretty  girl  who 
at  bedtime  handed  each  guest  a  lighted  candle  in 
a  candlestick.  She  fancied  some  of  the  fashion 
able  young  women  snubbed  her  but  Saxe  assured 
her  in  rhyme : 

"  There  is  not  a  single  one  of  them  all 
Who  could,  if  they  would,  hold  a  candle  to  you." 

He  was  an  inveterate  punster.  Miss  Caroline 
Ticknor  tells  us  how  he  used  to  lie  on  a  couch  in 
a  back  room  at  the  Old  Corner  Bookstore  in  Boston, 
at  a  very  early  hour,  and  amuse  the  boys  who  were 
sweeping  and  dusting  the  store  until  one  of  the 
partners  arrived.  I  believe  he  never  lost  a  chance 
to  indulge  in  a  verbal  quibble.  "In  the  mean 
time,  and  'twill  be  a  very  mean  time. " 

I  often  regret  that  I  did  not  preserve  his  comical 
letters,  and  those  of  Richard  Grant  White  and  other 
friends  who  were  literary  masters.  Mr.  Grant 


Charles  Storrs  61 

White  helped  me  greatly  when  I  was  doubtful 
about  some  literary  question,  saying  he  would  do 
anything  for  a  woman  whose  name  was  Kate. 
And  a  Dartmouth  graduate,  whom  I  asked  for  a 
brief  story  of  Father  Prout,  the  Irish  poet  and 
author,  gave  me  so  much  material  that  it  was  the 
most  interesting  lecture  of  my  season.  He  is  now 
a  most  distinguished  judge  in  Massachusetts. 

Saxe,  like  other  humourists,  suffered  from  mel 
ancholia  at  the  last.  Too  sad! 

After  giving  a  lecture  in  the  chapel  of  Packer 
Institute  at  the  time  I  was  with  Mrs.  Botta  in 
New  York,  I  was  surprised  to  receive  a  call  the 
next  morning  from  Mr.  Charles  Storrs  of  23 
Monroe  Place,  Brooklyn,  asking  me  to  go  to  his 
house,  and  make  use  of  his  library,  which  he  told 
me  Horace  Greeley  had  pronounced  the  best 
working  and  reference  library  he  had  ever  known. 
A  great  opportunity  for  anyone!  Mr.  Storrs  was 
too  busy  a  man  to  really  enjoy  his  own  library. 
Mrs.  Storrs  and  Miss  Edna  Dean  Proctor,  who 
made  her  home  with  them,  comprised  his  family, 
as  his  only  daughter  had  married  Miss  Proctor's 
brother  and  lived  in  Peoria,  Illinois.  Mr.  Storrs 
had  made  his  own  fortune,  starting  out  by  buying 
his  "  time  "  of  his  father  and  borrowing  an  old  horse 
and  pedlar's  cart  from  a  friend.  He  put  into  the 


62          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

cart  a  large  assortment  of  Yankee  notions,  or  what 
people  then  called  " short  goods,"  as  stockings, 
suspenders,  gloves,  shoestrings,  thread  and  needles, 
tape,  sewing  silk,  etc.  He  determined  to  make  his 
own  fortune  and  succeeded  royally  for  he  became 
a  "merchant  prince."  His  was  a  rarely  noble 
and  generous  nature  with  a  heart  as  big  as  his 
brain.  Several  of  his  large  rooms  downstairs  were 
crammed  with  wonderfully  beautiful  and  precious 
things  which  his  soul  delighted  in  picking  up,  in 
ivory,  jade,  bronze,  and  glass.  He  was  so  devot 
edly  fond  of  music  that  at  great  expense  he  had  a 
large  organ  built  which  could  be  played  by  pedal 
ling  and  pulling  stops  in  and  out,  and  sometimes 
on  Sunday  morning  he  would  rise  by  half -past  six, 
and  be  downstairs  in  his  shirt  sleeves  hard  at 
work,  eliciting  oratorio  or  opera  music  for  his 
own  delectation.  A  self-made  man,  "who  did  not 
worship  his  creator."  He  was  always  singularly 
modest,  although  very  decided  in  his  opinions. 
Men  are  asking  of  late  who  can  be  called  educated. 
Certainly  not  a  student  of  the  ancient  Assyrian  or 
the  mysteries  of  the  Yogi,  or  the  Baha,  or  the  Bud 
dhistic  legends,  when  life  is  so  brief  and  we  must 
"act  in  the  living  present."  But  a  man  who  has 
studied  life  and  human  nature  as  well  as  the  best 
form  of  books,  gained  breadth  and  culture  by  wide 


Horace  Greeley  63 

travel,  and  is  always  ready  for  new  truths,  that 
man  is  educated  in  the  best  sense,  although  en 
tirely  self-educated.  Greeley  used  to  say, ' '  Charles 
Storrs  is  a  great  man." 

Greeley  used  to  just  rest  and  enjoy  himself  at 
Mr.  Storrs' s  home,  often  two  weeks  at  a  time,  and 
liked  to  shut  himself  into  that  wonderful' library 
to  work  or  read.  Once  when  he  returned  unex 
pectedly,  the  maid  told  Miss  Proctor  that  Mr. 
Greeley  had  just  come  in  from  the  rain  and  was 
quite  wet,  and  there  was  no  fire  in  the  library.  He 
did  not  at  first  care  to  change  to  Mr.  Storrs 's 
special  den  in  the  basement.  But  Miss  Proctor 
said  "It  is  too  cold  here  and  your  coat  is  quite 
wet."  "Oh,  I  am  used  to  that,"  he  said  plain 
tively.  But  his  special  desk  was  carried  down  to 
a  room  bright  with  an  open  fire,  and  he  seemed 
glad  to  be  cared  for. 

Whitelaw  Reid  was  photographed  with  Greeley 
when  he  first  came  on  from  the  West  to  take  a 
good  share  of  the  responsibility  of  editing  the 
Tribune.  He  stood  behind  Greeley's  chair,  and  I 
noticed  his  hair  was  then  worn  quite  long.  But  he 
soon  attained  the  New  York  cut  as  well  as  the  New 
York  cult.  Both  Reid  and  John  Hay  were  at  that 
time  frequent  guests  of  Mr.  Storrs,  who  never 
seemed  weary  of  entertaining  his  friends.  Beecher 


64          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

was  one  of  his  intimate  acquaintances  and  they 
often  went  to  New  York  together  hunting  for 
rare  treasures. 

I  have  several  good  stories  about  Mr.  Greeley 
for  which  I  am  indebted  to  Miss  Proctor  who  told 
them  to  me. 

1.  He  used  to  write  way  up  in  a  small  attic 
in  the  Tribune  building,  and  seldom  allowed  any 
one  to  interrupt  him.     Some  man,  who  was  greatly 
disgusted  over  one  of  Greeley 's  editorials,  climbed 
up  to  his  sanctum,  and  as  soon  as  his  head  showed 
above  the  railing,  he  began  to  rave  and  rage,  using 
the  most  lurid  style  of  profanity.    It  seemed  as  if  he 
never  would  stop,  but  at  last,  utterly  exhausted  and 
out  of  breath  and  all  used  up,  he  waited  for  a  reply. 

Greeley  kept  on  writing,  never  having  looked  up 
once.  This  was  too  much  to  be  endured,  and  the 
caller  turned  to  go  downstairs,  when  Greeley  called 
out:  "Comeback,  my  friend,  come  back,  and  free 
your  mind." 

2.  Mr.  Greeley  once  found  that  one  of  the 
names  in  what  he  considered  an  important  article 
on  the  Board  of  Trade  had  been  incorrectly  printed. 
He  called  Rooker,  the  head  man  in  the  printing 
department,  and  asked  fiercely  what  man  set  the 
type  for  this  printing,  showing  him  the  mistake. 
Rooker  told  him,  and  went  to  get  the  culprit, 


Horace  Greeley  65 

whom  Greeley  said  deserved  to  be  kicked.  But 
when  he  came,  he  brought  Mr.  Greeley's  article 
in  his  own  writing,  and  showed  him  that  the 
mistake  was  his  own.  Mr.  Greeley  acknow 
ledged  he  was  the  guilty  one,  and  begging  the  man's 
pardon,  added,  "  Tom  Rooker,  come  here  and 
kick  me  quick. " 

3.  Once  when  Greeley  was  making  one  of  his 
frequent  visits  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Storrs,  the  widow 
of  the  minister  who  used  to  preach  at  Mansfield, 
Connecticut,  when  Mr.  Storrs  was  a  boy,  had  been 
invited  by  him  to  spend  a  week.  She  was  a  timid 
little  woman,  but  she  became  so  shocked  at 
several  things  that  Greeley  had  said  or  written  in 
his  paper  that  she  inquired  of  Miss  Proctor  if 
she  thought  Mr.  Greeley  would  allow  her  to  ask 
him  two  or  three  questions. 

Miss  Proctor  found  him  in  the  dining-room,  the 
floor  strewn  with  exchange  papers,  and  having 
secured  his  consent,  ushered  in  the  lady.  She 
told  me  afterward  that  she  heard  the  poor  little 
questioner  speak  with  a  rising  inflection  only  two 
or  three  times.  But  Mr.  Greeley  was  always  ready 
to  answer  at  length  and  with  extreme  earnestness. 
He  said  afterwards:  "Why  that  woman  is  way 
back  in  the  Middle  Ages." 

When  she  came  away  from  the  interview,  she 

5 


66          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

seemed  excited  and  dazed,  not  noticing  anyone, 
but  dashed  upstairs  to  her  room,  closed  the  door, 
and  never  afterward  alluded  to  her  attempt  to 
modify  Mr.  Greeley's  views. 

4.  A  little  girl  who  was  visiting  Mr.  Storrs  said : 
"It  would  never  do  for  Mr.  Greeley  to  go  to  Con 
gress,  he  would  make  such  a  slitter-slatter  of  the 
place." 

Miss  Proctor  published  A  Russian  Journey  after 
travelling  through  that  country;  has  published  a 
volume  of  poems,  and  has  made  several  appeals  in 
prose  and  verse  for  the  adoption  of  the  Indian 
corn  as  our  national  emblem.  She  is  also  desirous 
to  have  the  name  of  Mount  Rainier  changed  to 
Tacoma,  its  original  Indian  name,  and  has  a 
second  book  of  poems  ready  for  the  press. 

When  I  first  met  her  at  the  home  of  Mrs.  Storrs, 
I  thought  her  one  of  the  most  beautiful  women  I 
had  ever  seen — of  the  Andalusian  type — dark  hair 
and  lustrous  starry  eyes,  beautiful  features,  per 
fect  teeth,  a  slender,  willowy  figure,  and  a  voice 
so  musical  that  it  would  lure  a  bird  from  the 
bough.  She  had  a  way  all  her  own  of  " telling" 
you  a  poem.  She  was  perfectly  natural  about  it, 
a  recitative  semi-tone  yet  full  of  expression  and 
dramatic  breadth,  at  times  almost  a  chant.  With 
those  dark  and  glowing  eyes  looking  into  mine,  I 


Edna  Dean  Proctor  67 

have  listened  until  I  forgot  everything  about  me, 
and  was  simply  spellbound.  Mr.  Fields  described 
Tennyson's  reciting  his  own  poems  in  much  the 
same  way.  Whittier  once  said  to  a  friend,  "I 
consider  Miss  Proctor  one  of  the  best  woman 
poets  of  the  day/'  and  then  added,  "But  why  do 
I  say  one  of  the  best;  why  not  the  best?" 

Miss  Proctor  has  always  been  glad  to  assist  any 
plan  of  mine,  and  wrote  a  poem  especially  for  my 
Christmas  book,  Purple  and  Gold.  Mr.  Osgood, 
the  publisher,  when  I  showed  him  the  poem,  said, 
"But  how  do  I  know  that  the  public  will  care  for 
your  weeds?"  (referring  to  the  asters  and  golden- 
rod).  He  said  later:  "The  instant  popularity  and 
large  sale  of  that  booklet  attested  the  happiness 
of  Miss  Sanborn's  selection,  and  the  kind  contri 
butions  from  her  friends. "  Miss  Proctor's  contri 
bution  was  the  first  poem  in  the  book  and  I 
venture  to  publish  it  as  it  has  never  been  in  print 
since  the  first  sale.  My  friend's  face  is  still 
beautiful,  her  mind  is  as  active  as  when  we  first 
met,  her  voice  has  lost  none  of  its  charm,  and 
she  is  the  same  dear  friend  as  of  yore. 

GOLDENROD  AND  ASTERS 

The  goldenrod,  the  goldenrod, 
That  glows  in  sun  or  rain, 


68          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

Waving  its  plumes  on  every  bank 

From  the  mountain  slope  to  the  main, — 

Not  dandelions,  nor  cowslips  fine, 
Nor  buttercups,  gems  of  summer, 

Nor  leagues  of  daisies  yellow  and  white, 
Can  rival  this  latest  comer! 

On  the  plains  and  the  upland  pastures 

Such  regal  splendour  falls 
When  forth,  from  myriad  branches  green, 

Its  gold  the  south  wind  calls, — 
That  the  tale  seems  true  the  red  man's  god 

Lavished  its  bloom  to  say, 
"Though  days  grow  brief  and  suns  grow  cold, 

My  love  is  the  same  for  aye. " 

And,  darker  than  April  violets 

Or  pallid  as  wind-flowers  grow, 
Under  its  shades  from  hill  to  meadow 

Great  beds  of  asters  blow. — 
Oh  plots  of  purple  o'erhung  with  gold 

That  need  nor  walls  nor  wardens, 
Not  fairer  shone,  to  the  Median  Queen, 

Her  Babylonian  gardens! 

On  Scotia's  moors  the  gorse  is  gay, 

And  England's  lanes  and  fallows 
Are  decked  with  broom  whose  winsome  grace 

The  hovering  linnet  hallows ; 
But  the  robin  sings  from  his  maple  bow, 

"Ah,  linnet,  lightly  won, 
Your  bloom  to  my  blaze  of  wayside  gold 

Is  the  wan  moon  to  the  sun!" 


Edna  Dean  Proctor  69 

And  were  I  to  be  a  bride  at  morn, 

Ere  the  chimes  rang  out  I'd  say, 
"Not  roses  red,  but  goldenrod 

Strew  in  my  path  today ! 
And  let  it  brighten  the  dusky  aisle, 

And  flame  on  the  altar-stair, 
Till  the  glory  and  light  of  the  fields  shall  flood 

The  solemn  dimness  there." 

And  should  I  sleep  in  my  shroud  at  eve, 

Not  lilies  pale  and  cold, 
But  the  purple  asters  of  the  wood 

Within  my  hand  I'd  hold; — 
For  goldenrod  is  the  flower  of  love 

That  time  and  change  defies ; 
And  asters  gleam  through  the  autumn  air 

With  the  hues  of  Paradise ! 

EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR. 

Shortly  before  the  Civil  War,  I  went  with  father 
to  St.  Louis,  he  to  take  a  place  in  the  Washington 
University,  while  I  was  offered  a  position  in  the 
Mary  Institute  to  teach  classes  of  girls.  Chan 
cellor  Hoyt  of  the  university  had  been  lured  from 
Exeter,  New  Hampshire.  He  was  widely  known 
in  the  educational  world,  and  was  one  of  the  most 
brilliant  men  I  ever  knew,  strong,  wise,  witty, 
critical,  scholarly,  with  a  scorn  of  anything  super 
ficial  or  insincere. 

I  had  thought  of  omitting  my  experience  in  this 
city,  to  me  so  really  tragic.  Just  before  we  were 


70          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

to  leave  Hanover,  a  guest  brought  five  of  us  a 
gift  of  measles.  I  had  the  confluent-virulent- 
delirious-iose-all-your-hair  variety.  When  con 
valescent,  I  found  that  my  hair,  which  had  been 
splendidly  thick  and  long,  was  coming  out  alarm 
ingly,  and  it  was  advised  that  my  head  be  shaved, 
with  a  promise  that  the  hair  would  surely  be  curly 
and  just  as  good  as  before  the  illness.  I  felt  pretty 
measly  and  ' '  meachin ' '  and  submitted.  The  effect 
was  indescribably  awful.  I  saw  my  bald  pate 
once,  and  almost  fainted.  I  was  provided  with  a 
fearsome  wig,  of  coarse,  dark  red  hair,  held  in 
place  by  a  black  tape.  Persons  who  had  pitied 
me  for  having  "such  a  big  head  and  so  much  hair*' 
now  found  reason  for  comment  "on  my  small  head 
with  no  hair."  The  most  expensive  head  cover 
never  deceived  anyone,  however  simple,  and  I 
was  obliged  to  make  my  debut  in  St.  Louis  in  this 
piteous  plight. 

We  then  had  our  first  taste  of  western-southern 
cordiality  and  demonstrativeness.  It  occurred  to 
me  that  they  showed  more  delight  in  welcoming  us 
than  our  own  home  folks  showed  regret  at  our 
departure.  It  was  a  liberal  education  to  me. 
They  all  seemed  to  understand  about  the  hideous 
wig,  but  never  showed  that  they  noticed  it.  One 
of  our  first  callers  was  a  popular,  eloquent 


Experiences  at  St.  Louis  71 

clergyman,  who  kissed  me  "as  the  daughter  of  my 
mother.'*  He  said,  "I  loved  your  mother  and 
asked  her  to  marry  me,  but  I  was  refused." 
Several  young  men  at  once  wanted  to  get  up  a 
weekly  dancing  class  for  me,  but  I  was  timid, 
fearing  my  wig  would  fall  off  or  get  wildly  askew. 
Whittier  in  one  of  his  poems  has  this  couplet, 
which  suggests  the  reverse  of  my  experience: 

"  She  rose  from  her  delicious  sleep, 
And  laid  aside  her  soft-brown  hair." 

At  bedtime  my  wig  must  come  off  and  a  night 
cap  take  the  place.  In  the  morning  that  wig  must 
go  on,  with  never  one  look  in  the  glass.  Soon 
two  persons  called,  both  leaders  in  social  life,  one 
of  them  a  physician,  who  had  suddenly  lost  every 
spear  of  hair.  I  was  invited  by  the  unfortunate 
physician  and  his  wife  to  dine  with  them.  And, 
in  his  own  home,  I  noticed  in  their  parlour  a  por 
trait  of  him  before  his  experience.  He  had  been 
blessed  with  magnificently  thick  black  hair,  a 
handsome  face,  adorned  with  a  full  beard  and 
moustache.  It  was  an  April  evening  and  the 
weather  was  quite  warm,  and  after  dinner  the 
doctor  removed  his  wig,  placing  it  on  a  plaster 
head.  He  was  now  used  to  his  affliction.  He  told 
me,  as  he  sat  smoking,  looking  like  a  waxwork 


72          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

figure,  how  several  years  ago  he  awoke  in  the 
dead  of  the  night  to  find  something  he  could  not 
understand  on  his  pillow.  He  roused  his  wife,  lit 
the  gas,  dashed  cold  water  on  his  face  to  help  him 
to  realize  what  had  happened  and  washed  off  all  the 
rest  of  his  hair,  even  to  eyebrows  and  eyelashes. 
That  was  a  depressing  story  to  me.  And  I  soon 
met  a  lady  (the  Mayor's  wife)  who  had  suffered 
exactly  in  the  same  way.  She  also  was  resigned, 
as  indeed  she  had  to  be.  I  began  to  tremble  lest 
my  own  hair  should  never  return. 

But  I  should  be  telling  you  about  St.  Louis. 
We  were  most  cordially  received  by  clergymen 
from  three  churches  and  all  the  professors  at  the 
university,  and  the  trustees  with  their  wives  and 
daughters.  Wyman  Crow,  a  trustee,  was  the 
generous  patron  of  Harriet  Hosmer,  whose  Ze- 
nobia  was  at  that  time  on  exhibition  there.  The 
Mary  Institute  was  founded  in  remembrance  of 
Rev.  Dr.  Eliot's  daughter  Mary,  who  while  skat 
ing  over  one  of  the  so-called  "sink-holes,'*  then 
existing  about  the  city,  broke  the  ice,  fell  in,  and 
the  body  was  never  recovered.  These  sink  holes 
were  generally  supposed  to  be  unfathomable. 

Since  I  could  not  dance,  I  took  to  art,  although 
I  had  no  more  capacity  in  that  direction  than  a 
cow.  I  attempted  a  bunch  of  dahlias,  but  when  I 


Experiences  at  St.  Louis  73 

offered  the  result  to  a  woman  cleaning  our  rooms 
she  looked  at  it  queer ly,  held  it  at  a  distance,  and 
then  inquired:  "Is  the  frame  worth  anything?" 

I  acknowledge  a  lifelong  indebtedness  to  Chancel 
lor  Hoyt.  He  was  suffering  fearfully  with  old- 
fashioned  consumption,  but  he  used  to  send  for  me 
to  read  to  him  to  distract  his  thoughts.  He  would 
also  criticize  my  conversation,  never  letting  one 
word  pass  that  was  ungrammatical  or  incorrectly 
pronounced.  If  I  said,  "I  am  so  glad,"  he  would 
ask,  "So  glad  that  what?  You  don't  give  the 
correlative."  He  warned  against  reliance  on  the 
aid  of  alliteration.  The  books  read  to  him  were  dis 
cussed  and  the  authors  praised  or  criticized. 

St.  Louis  was  to  me  altogether  delightful,  and 
I  still  am  interested  in  that  city,  so  enlarged  and 
improved.  I  used  to  see  boys  riding  astride  razor- 
back  hogs  in  the  street,  where  now  stately  limou 
sines  glide  over  smooth  pavements. 

I  have  always  had  more  cordiality  towards 
strangers,  homesick  students  at  Dartmouth,  and 
the  audiences  at  my  lectures,  since  learning  a 
better  habit.  Frigidity  and  formality  were  driven 
away  by  the  sunshine  that  brightened  my  stay  at 
St.  Louis. 

I  do  not  wish  to  intrude  my  private  woes,  but 
I  returned  from  the  West  with  a  severe  case  of 


74  Memories  and  Anecdotes 

whooping-cough.  I  didn't  get  it  at  St.  Louis,  but 
in  the  sleeping-car  between  that  city  and  Chicago. 
I  advise  children  to  see  to  it  that  both  parents  get 
through  with  all  the  vastly  unpleasant  epidemics 
of  childhood  at  an  early  age.  It  is  one  of  the  duties 
of  children  to  parents. 


CHAPTER  III 

Happy  Days  with  Mrs.  Botta — My  Busy  Life  in  New  York — 
President  Barnard  of  Columbia  College — A  Surprise  from 
Bierstadt — Professor  Doremus,  a  Universal  Genius — Charles 
H.  Webb,  a  truly  funny  "Funny  Man"— Mrs.  Esther  Her 
mann,  a  Modest_Giver. 

I  WAS  obliged  to  give  up  my  work  at  Packer 
Institute,  when  diphtheria  attacked  me,  but  a 
wonderful  joy  came  to  me  after  recovery. 
1  Mrs.  Vincenzo  Botta  invited  me  to  her  home  in 
West  Thirty-seventh  Street  for  the  winter  and 
spring.  Anne  C.  Lynch,  many  years  before  her 
marriage  to  Mr.  Botta,  had  taught  at  the 
Packer  Institute  herself,  and  at  that  time  had 
a  few  rooms  on  West  Ninth  Street.  She  told 
me  she  used  to  take  a  hurried  breakfast  stand 
ing  by  the  kitchen  table;  then  saying  good-bye 
to  the  mother  to  whom  she  was  devoted,  walked 
from  Ninth  Street  to  the  Brooklyn  ferry,  then 
up  Joralemon  Street,  as  she  was  required  to 
be  present  at  morning  prayers.  Her  means 
were  limited  at  that  time  and  carfare  would 
take  too  much.  But  it  was  then  that  she  started 

75 


76          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

and  maintained  her  "Saturday  Evenings,"  which 
became  so  attractive  and  famous  that  N.  P.  Willis 
wrote  of  them  that  no  one  of  any  distinction 
thought  a  visit  to  New  York  complete  without 
spending  a  Saturday  evening  with  Miss  Lynch. 
People  went  in  such  numbers  that  many  were 
obliged  to  sit  on  the  stairs,  but  all  were  happy. 
Her  refreshments  were  of  the  simplest  kind,  lemon 
ade  and  wafers  or  sandwiches.  It  has  often  been 
said  that  she  established  the  only  salon  in  this 
country,  but  why  bring  in  that  word  so  distinc 
tively  belonging  to  the  French? 

Miss  Lynch  was  just  "at  home  "  and  made  all  who 
came  to  her  happy  and  at  their  best.  Fredrika 
Bremer,  the  celebrated  Norwegian  writer,  was  her 
guest  for  several  weeks  at  her  home  in  Ninth  Street. 
Catherine  Sedgwick  attended  several  of  her  recep 
tions,  wondering  at  the  charm  which  drew  so  many. 
There  Edgar  Poe  gave  the  first  reading  of  "The 
Raven"  before  it  was  printed.  Ole  Bull,  who 
knew  her  then,  was  a  life-long  friend  to  her. 
Fanny  Kemble,  Bryant,  Halleck,  Willis  were  all 
devoted  friends. 

After  her  marriage  to  Professor  Vincenzo  Botta, 
nephew  of  the  historian  Botta,  and  their  taking 
a  house  in  Thirty-seventh  Street,  she  gathered 
around  her  table  the  most  interesting  and  distin- 


Mrs.  Botta  77 

guished  men  and  women  of  the  day,  and  the 
' '  Saturday  Evenings  "  were  continued  with  increas 
ing  crowds.  She  had  a  most  expressive  face  and 
beautiful  blue  eyes.  Never  one  of  the  prodigious 
talkers,  dressed  most  quietly,  she  was  just  herself, 
a  sweet-faced,  sincere  woman,  and  was  blessed  with 
an  atmosphere  and  charm  that  were  felt  by  all. 

At  one  of  her  breakfasts  I  recollect  Emerson,  who 
often  visited  there,  Bryant,  Bayard  Taylor,  and 
Grace  Greenwood.  At  another,  John  Fiske,  Presi 
dent  Andrew  D.  White,  and  other  men  interested  in 
thqir  line  of  thought.  I  must  mention  a  lady  who 
in  the  midst  of  their  inspiring  conversation  broke 
forth  in  a  loud  tone  to  Mrs.  Botta:  "I  found  a 
splendid  receipt  for  macaroni ;  mix  it,  when  boiled, 
with  stewed  tomatoes  and  sprinkle  freely  with 
parmesan  cheese  before  baking. " 

One  evening  Whitelaw  Reid  brought  John  Hay. 
He  beckoned  to  me  to  come  to  him,  and  presenting 
Mr.  Hay  said:  "I  want  to  make  a  prediction  in 
regard  to  this  young  man.  If  you  live  long  enough 
you  will  hear  of  him  as  the  greatest  statesman 
and  diplomat  our  country  has  ever  had. "  A  few 
evenings  after,  at  a  Dramatic  Club  of  great  talent, 
I  saw  Mr.  Hay  figuring  as  Cupid  in  Mrs.  Jarley's 
wax- work  show.  He  looked  and  acted  his  part, 
turning  gracefully  on  his  toes  to  show  his  wings 


78          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

and  quiver  of  arrows.  And  Mr.  Reid,  mounted  on 
a  step-ladder  behind  a  draped  clothes-horse,  repre 
sented  the  distressed  Lord  Ullin  whose  daughter 
was  seen  eloping  in  a  boat  with  her  Highland  chief, 
the  tossing  waves  being  sheets  in  full  motion. 

For  years  it  seemed  as  if  this  were  the  one  truly 
cosmopolitan  drawing-room  in  the  city,  because  it 
drew  the  best  from  all  sources.  Italy  and  England, 
France  and  Germany,  Spain,  Russia,  Norway  and 
Hungary,  Siam,  China,  India,  and  Japan  sent 
guests  hither.  Liberals  and  Conservatives,  peers 
and  revolutionists,  holders  of  the  most  ancient 
traditions,  and  advocates  of  the  most  modern 
theories — all  found  their  welcome,  if  they  deserved 
it,  and  each  took  away  a  new  respect  for  the  posi 
tion  of  his  opponent. 

Madame  Ristori,  Salvini,  Fechter,  Campanini, 
and  Madame  Gerster  were  honoured  with  special 
receptions.  Special  receptions  were  also  given  in 
honour  of  George  P.  Marsh,  on  the  occasion  of  his 
appointment  as  Minister  to  Turin  in  1861,  and  to 
the  officers  of  the  Royal  Navy  of  Italy  when  they 
came  to  this  country  to  take  possession  of  two 
frigates  built  by  an  American  ship-builder  for  the 
Italian  Government. 

Emerson  appreciated  Mrs.  Botta  as  a  hostess. 
He  enjoyed  being  in  her  home,  saying  it  "rested 


MRS.   ANNE    C.    LYNCH    BOTTA 


Mrs.  Botta  79 

him."  "I  wish  that  I  could  believe  that  in  your 
miles  of  palaces  were  many  houses  and  house 
keepers  as  excellent  as  I  know  at  25  West  37th 
Street,  your  house  with  the  expanding  doors." 
He  speaks  of  her  invitation  as  "one  of  the  happiest 
rainbows."  ''Your  hospitality  has  an  Arabian 
memory,  to  keep  its  kind  purpose  through  such  a 
long  time.  You  were  born  under  Hatem  Yayi's 
own  star,  and  like  him,  are  the  genius  of  hospital 
ity. "  (Haten  Yayi  was  a  celebrated  Oriental 
whose  house  had  sixteen  doors.) 

And  Mrs.  Botta  was  greatly  cheered  by  Emer 
son.  She  wrote: 

I  always  wish  I  had  had  my  photograph  taken  when 
Mr.  Emerson  was  staying  in  my  house.  Everyone 
felt  his  influence,  even  the  servants  who  would  hardly 
leave  the  dining-room.  I  looked  like  a  different  being, 
and  was  so  happy  I  forgot  to  see  that  he  had  enough 
to  eat. 

Early  in  her  time  some  of  her  friends — such  as 
Ripley,  Curtis,  and  Cranch — had  joined  a  small 
agricultural  and  educational  association,  called 
the  "Brook  Farm,"  near  Roxbury,  Massachusetts. 
She  visited  them  once  or  twice,  and  saw  Mr.  Curtis 
engaged  in  washing  dishes  which  had  been  used 
by  "The  Community."  She  remarked  to  him 
that  perhaps  he  could  be  better  employed  for  the 


8o          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

progress  of  his  fellow-men  than  in  wasting  his 
energy  on  something  more  easily  done  by  others. 

At  one  time  she  invited  Bronson  Alcott,  one  of 
the  leaders  of  a  similar  movement,  to  preside  over 
some  conversazioni  in  her  parlours,  where  he  could 
elucidate  his  favourite  subject.  On  one  occasion, 
a  lady  in  the  audience,  impressed  by  some  senti 
ments  uttered  by  the  lecturer,  inquired  of  him  if 
his  opinion  was  that  we  were  gods.  "No,"  an 
swered  Mr.  Alcott,  "we  are  not  gods,  but  only 
godlings, "  an  explanation  which  much  amused 
Mrs.  Botta,  who  was  always  quick  in  perceiving 
the  funny  side  of  a  remark.  (I  timidly  suggest 
that  s  be  substituted  for  d.) 

Mrs.  Botta  having  promised  to  see  Mr.  Greeley, 
and  urge  him  to  give  a  favourable  notice  in  the 
Tribune  of  the  concert  where  a  young  singer  was  to 
make  her  debut,  went  down  to  his  office  to  plead 
for  a  lenient  criticism.  But  not  one  word  ap 
peared.  So  down  she  went  to  inquire  the  reason. 
She  was  ushered  into  the  Editor's  Sanctum,  where 
he  was  busily  writing  and  hardly  looked  up.  She 
asked  why  he  was  so  silent;  it  was  such  a  disap 
pointment.  No  reply.  She  spoke  once  more. 
Then  came  the  verdict  in  shrill  tones:  "She  can't 
sing.  She  can't  sing.  She  can't  sing. " 

New  Year's  calls  were  then  the  custom,  and  more 


Mrs.  Botta  81 

than  three  hundred  men  paid  their  respects  to  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Botta  on  the  New  Year's  Day  I  spent 
with  them.  And  everyone  looked,  as  Theodore 
Hook  said,  as  if  he  were  somebody  in  particular. 
At  one  of  these  " Saturday  Evenings,"  a  stranger 
walked  through  her  rooms,  with  hands  crossed 
under  his  coat  and  humming  execrably  as  he  wan 
dered  along.  The  gentle  hostess  went  to  him  with 
her  winning  smile  and  inquired,  "Do  you  play 
also? "  That  proves  her  capacity  for  sarcasm  and 
criticism  which  she  seldom  employed.  She  con 
versed  remarkably  well,  but  after  all  it  was  what 
she  did  not  say  that  proved  her  greatness  and  self- 
control. 

Mrs.  Botta  had  talent  in  various  directions. 
She  made  portrait  busts  in  plaster  that  really 
were  like  the  subjects,  with  occasionally  an  in 
spired  success,  and  that  without  any  teaching. 
She  showed  genius  in  this  work.  When  a  bust  of 
her  modelling  was  sent  to  Rome  to  be  put  into 
marble,  the  foremost  of  Italian  sculptors,  not 
knowing  the  maker,  declared  that  nothing  would 
be  beyond  the  reach  of  the  artist  if  he  would  come 
to  Rome  and  study  technique  for  a  year.  Mrs. 
Botta  asked  me  to  let  her  try  to  get  my  face. 
That  was  delightful.  To  be  with  her  in  her  own 
studio  and  watch  her  interest!  Later  some  dis- 

6 


82  Memories  and  Anecdotes 

couragement,  and  then  enthusiasm  as  at  last  the 
likeness  came.  She  said  she  took  the  humorous 
side  of  my  face.  The  other  side  she  found  sad. 
My  friends  not  only  recognized  my  face,  but  they 
saw  my  mother's  face  inwrought. 

Mrs.  Botta  had  talent  in  various  directions. 
She  published  a  large  book,  The  Hand  Book  of 
Universal  Literature,  once  used  at  Harvard  and 
other  colleges,  and  hoped  to  prepare  one  of  similar 
style  on  Universal  History.  She  also  wrote  a  small 
volume  of  poems,  but  her  days  were  given  to  the 
needs  of  others.  Only  a  few  mornings  were  we  able 
to  work  on  her  Universal  History.  There  were  too 
many  calls  for  advice,  sympathy,  or  aid ;  the  door 
bell  rang  too  often.  I  heard  a  young  girl  once  say 
of  her:  ''She  is  great  enough  to  have  been  an 
inspired  prophetess  of  olden  times,  and  tender 
enough  to  have  been  the  mother  of  our  Dear  Sav 
iour.  "  Such  were  the  words  of  impassioned  praise 
that  fell  from  the  lips  of  a  young,  motherless, 
Roman  Catholic  girl,  one  of  the  many  whom  Mrs. 
Botta  had  taught  and  befriended.  Once,  when 
reading  to  Mrs.  Botta  in  connection  with  her 
"History,"  a  man  called  to  see  her  about  getting 
material  for  her  biography.  To  my  surprise,  she 
waved  her  hand  to  me  saying,  "This  young  lady  is 
to  be  my  biographer. "  As  I  felt  entirely  unable  to 


Mrs.  Botta  83 

attempt  such  a  work  I  told  her  it  should  be  made  up 
of  letters  from  a  host  of  friends  who  had  known  her 
so  well  and  so  long.  This  pleased  her,  and  after 
her  death  her  husband  wrote  me  urging  me  to  edit 
such  a  composite  picture,  but  knowing  his  superior 
fitness  for  the  work,  I  thanked  him  for  the  compli 
ment,  but  declined.  What  a  delightful  result  was 
accomplished  by  his  good  judgment,  literary  skill, 
and  the  biographical  notes  gladly  given  by  her 
intimate  friends.  I  will  give  a  few  quotations 
from  the  tributes : 

To  me — as  to  others — her  conversation  was  singu 
larly  inspiring ;  it  suggested  to  a  man  his  best  trains  of 
thought ;  it  developed  in  him  the  best  he  had ;  it  made 
him  think  better  of  himself  and  of  mankind;  it  sent 
him  away  stronger  for  all  good  work. 

She  seemed  to  me  capable  of  worshipping  in  equal 
fervour  with  Roman  Catholics  or  with  Unitarians — in 
a  cathedral  or  in  a  hovel;  and  this  religious  spirit  of 
hers  shone  out  in  her  life  and  in  her  countenance. 
Very  pleasant  was  her  optimism ;  she  looked  about  her 
in  this  world  without  distrust,  and  beyond  her  into 
the  next  world  without  fear. 

She  had  a  delightful  sense  of  humour — so  sweet,  so 
delicate,  so  vivid.  She  had  a  gift  of  appreciation 
which  I  have  never  seen  surpassed. 

If  Mrs.  Botta  found  more  in  society  than  most  per 
sons  do,  it  was  because  she  carried  more  there. 


84          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

Horace  Greeley  once  said  to  me,  "Anne  Lynch 
is  the  best  woman  that  God  ever  made. " 

Few  women  known  to  me  have  had  greater  grace 
or  ease  in  the  entertainment  of  strangers,  while  in  her 
more  private  intercourse,  her  frank,  intelligent,  cour 
teous  ways  won  her  the  warmest  and  most  desirable 
friendships. 

The  position  of  the  Bottas  in  the  literary  and  artistic 
world  enabled  them  to  draw  together  not  only  the  best- 
known  people  of  this  country,  but  to  a  degree  greater 
than  any,  as  far  as  I  know,  the  most  distinguished  visi 
tors  from  abroad,  beyond  the  ranks  of  mere  title  or 
fashion.  No  home,  I  think,  in  all  the  land  compared 
with  theirs  in  the  number  and  character  of  its  foreign 
visitors. 

I  should  like  to  introduce  you  to  her  home  as  it 
was — the  hall,  with  its  interesting  pictures  and  fra 
grant  with  fresh  flowers ;  the  dining-room,  the  drawing- 
rooms,  with  their  magnetized  atmosphere  of  the  past 
(you  can  almost  feel  the  presence  of  those  who  have 
loved  to  linger  there);  her  own  sanctum,  where  a 
chosen  few  were  admitted ;  but  the  limits  of  space  for 
bid.  The  queens  of  Parisian  salons  have  been  praised 
and  idealized  till  we  are  led  to  believe  them  unap 
proachable  in  their  social  altitude.  But  I  am  not 
afraid  to  place  beside  them  an  American  woman,  un 
crowned  by  extravagant  adulation,  but  fully  their  equal 
— the  artist,  poet,  conversationist,  Anne  C.  L.  Botta. 

She  was  absolutely  free  from  egotism  or  conceit, 
always  avoiding  allusion  to  what  she  had  accom- 


Mrs.  Botta  85 

plished,  or  her  unfulfilled  longings.     But  she  once 
told  me: 

Sandy  (short  for  old,  red  sand  stone),  I  would  rather 
have  had  a  child  than  to  have  made  the  most  perfect 
statue  or  the  finest  painting  ever  produced.  [She 
also  said]:  If  I  could  only  stop  longing  and  aspiring 
for  that  which  is  not  in  my  power  to  attain,  but  is 
only  just  near  enough  to  keep  me  always  running  after 
it,  like  the  donkey  that  followed  an  ear  of  corn  which 
was  tied  fast  to  a  stick. 

Mrs.  Botta  came  of  a  Celtic  father,  gay,  humor 
ous,  full  of  impulsive  chivalry  and  intense  Irish 
patriotism,  and  of  a  practical  New  England  mother, 
herself  of  Revolutionary  stock,  clear  of  judgment, 
careful  of  the  household  economy,  upright,  exem 
plary,  and  "facultied. "  In  the  daughter  these 
inherited  qualities  blended  in  a  most  harmonious 
whole.  Grant  Allen,  the  scientific  writer,  novelist, 
and  student  of  spiritualistic  phenomena,  thinks 
that  racial  differences  often  combine  to  produce  a 
genius. 

I  often  think  of  that  rarely  endowed  friend  in  full 
faith  that  she  now  has  the  joys  denied  her  here,  and 
that  her  many-sided  nature  is  allowed  progress, 
full  and  free  and  far,  in  many  directions.  I  am 
also  sure  that  Heaven  could  not  be  Heaven  to  Mrs. 
Botta  if  she  were  not  able  to  take  soul  flights  and 
use  wireless  telegraphy  to  still  help  those  she  left 


86          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

behind,  and  hope  that  she  can  return  to  greet  and 
guide  us  as  we  reach  the  unknown  land. 

Through  the  kind  suggestions  of  Mrs.  Botta, 
I  was  asked  to  give  talks  on  literary  matters  at  the 
house  of  one  of  New  York's  most  influential  citi 
zens.  This  I  enjoyed  immensely.  Soon  the  large 
drawing-rooms  were  too  small  for  the  numbers  who 
came.  Next  we  went  to  the  Young  Women's  Chris 
tian  Association,  to  the  library  there,  and  later 
I  decided  to  engage  the  church  parlours  in  Doctor 
Howard  Crosby's  Church,  Fourth  Avenue  and 
Twenty-second  Street,  New  York.  When  I  real 
ized  my  audacious  venture,  I  was  frightened. 
Ten  lectures  had  been  advertised  and  some  not 
written ! 

On  the  day  for  my  first  lecture  the  rain  poured 
down,  and  I  felt  sure  of  a  failure.  My  sister  went 
with  me  to  the  church.  As  we  drew  near  I 
noticed  a  string  of  carriages  up  and  down  the 
avenue.  * '  There  must  be  a  wedding  or  a  funeral, ' ' 
I  whispered,  feeling  more  in  the  mood  of  the  latter, 
but  never  dreaming  how '  much  those  carriages 
meant  to  me.  As  I  went  timidly  into  the  room  I 
found  nearly  every  seat  full,  and  was  greeted  with 
cordial  applause.  My  sister  took  a  seat  beside  me. 
My  subject  was  ''Spinster  Authors  of  England." 
My  hands  trembled  so  visibly  that  I  laid  my  manu- 


Mrs.  Botta  87 

script  on  the  table,  but  after  getting  in  magnetic 
touch  with  those  before  me,  I  did  not  mind. 

The  reading  occupied  only  one  hour,  and  after 
wards  I  was  surrounded  by  New  Hampshire  women 
and  New  Yorkers  who  congratulated  me  warmly. 
There  were  reporters  sent  from  seven  of  the  best 
daily  papers,  whom  I  found  sharpening  their 
pencils  expectantly.  They  gave  correct  and  com 
plimentary  notices,  and  my  success  was  now 
assured. 

Mr.  James  T.  Fields  not  only  advised  his  New 
York  friends  to  hear  me,  but  came  himself,  bring 
ing  my  father  who  was  deeply  gratified.  Mr. 
Fields  told  father  that  I  had  a  remarkably  choice 
audience,  among  the  best  in  the  city.  My  father 
had  felt  very  deeply,  even  to  tears,  the  sharp,  nar 
row  and  adverse  criticism  of  one  of  his  associates 
who  considered  that  I  unsexed  myself  by  daring  to 
speak  in  public,  and  who  advised  strongly  against 
encouraging  me  in  such  unwomanly  behaviour. 

I  was  a  pioneer  as  a  lecturer  on  literature  quite 
unconsciously,  for  I  had  gone  along  so  gradually 
that  I  did  not  realize  it — taken  up  and  set  down  in 
a  new  place  with  no  planning  on  my  part. 

Invited  by  many  of  the  citizens  of  Hanover,  New 
Hampshire,  my  old  home,  to  go  there  and  give  my 
lecture  on  "Lady  Morgan,"  the  Irish  novelist,  for 


88          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

the  purpose  of  purchasing  a  new  carpet  for  the 
Congregational  Church,  I  was  surprised  to  feel 
again  the  same  stern  opposition;  I  was  not  per 
mitted  to  speak  in  the  church,  but  immediately 
was  urged  to  accept  the  large  recitation  hall  of  the 
Scientific  School.  It  was  crowded  to  the  doors  and 
the  college  boys  climbed  up  and  swarmed  about  the 
windows.  The  carpet,  a  dark  red  ingrain,  was 
bought,  put  down,  and  wore  well  for  years. 

Now  came  a  busy  life.  I  was  asked  to  lecture 
in  many  places  near  New  York,  always  in  delight 
ful  homes.  Had  a  class  of  married  ladies  at  the 
home  of  Dr.  J.  G.  Holland,  where  I  gave  an  idea  of 
the  newest  books.  Doctor  Holland  gave  me  a  de 
partment,  "Bric-a-brac,"  in  his  magazine — Scrib- 
ner's  Magazine;  and  I  was  honoured  by  a  request 
from  the  editors  of  the  Galaxy  to  take  the  "Club 
Room"  from  which  Mark  Twain  had  just  resigned. 
Meeting  him  soon  after  at  a  dinner,  he  said  with 
his  characteristic  drawl:  "Awful  solemn,  ain't  it, 
having  to  be  funny  every  month;  worse  than  a 
funeral. "  I  started  a  class  in  my  own  apartment 
to  save  time  for  ladies  who  wanted  to  know  about 
the  most  interesting  books  as  they  were  published, 
but  whose  constant  engagements  made  it  impossible 
to  read  them  entirely  for  themselves.  I  suggested 
to  the  best  publishers  to  send  me  copies  of  their 


Life  in  New  York  89 

attractive  publications  which  I  would  read,  con 
dense,  and  then  talk  them  over  with  these  friends. 
All  were  glad  to  aid  me.  Their  books  were  piled 
on  my  piano  and  tables,  and  many  were  sold.  I 
want  to  say  that  such  courtesy  was  a  rare  compli 
ment.  I  used  to  go  to  various  book  stores,  asking 
permission  to  look  over  books  at  a  special  reading 
table,  and  never  met  a  refusal.  I  fear  in  these 
days  of  aiding  the  war  sufferers,  and  keeping  our 
bodies  limber  and  free  from  rheumatism  by  daily 
dancing,  this  plan  would  not  find  patrons. 

I  was  often  "browsing,"  as  they  call  it,  at  the 
Mercantile  Library.  At  first  I  would  sit  down  and 
give  the  names  of  volumes  desired.  That  took  too 
long.  At  last  I  was  allowed  to  go  where  I  liked 
and  take  what  I  wanted.  I  sent  a  pair  of  hand 
some  slippers  at  Christmas  to  the  man  who  had 
been  my  special  servitor.  He  wrote  me  how  he 
admired  them  and  wished  he  could  wear  them,  but 
alas!  his  feet  had  both  been  worn  to  a  stub  long 
ago  from  such  continuous  running  and  climbing  to 
satisfy  my  seldom-satisfied  needs.  He  added  that 
several  of  the  errand  boys  had  become  permanently 
crippled  from  over-exertion.  I  then  understood 
why  he  had  married  a  famous  woman  doctor.  It 
is  hard  to  get  the  books  asked  for  in  very  large 
libraries.  Once  I  was  replying  to  an  attack  on  Miss 


90          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps's  style  by  Miss  Dodge, 
well  known  under  the  pen  name  Gail  Hamilton, 
and  I  gave  this  order:  "Complete  works  of  Miss 
Abigail  Dodge — and  please  hurry."  After  intol 
erable  waiting,  two  boys  appeared  looking  very 
weary,  bearing  the  many  sermons  and  heavy 
memoirs  of  the  Reverend  Narcissus  Dodge. 

In  my  special  class  at  home  I  begged  my  friends 
to  ask  questions  in  an  off-hand  way,  and  to  com 
ment  upon  my  opinions.  That  was  stimulating  to 
all.  One  morning  my  theme  was  "Genius  and 
Talent."  I  said  Genius  was  something  beyond 
— outside  of — ourselves,  which  achieved  great 
results  with  small  exertion.  Not  by  any  means 
was  it  a  bit  of  shoemakers'  wax  in  the  seat  of  one's 
chair  (as  Anthony  Trollope  put  it).  Talent  must 
work  hard  and  constantly  for  development.  I  said : 
"Genius  is  inspiration;  Talent  is  perspiration." 
I  had  never  heard  that  definition  and  thought  it 
was  mine.  Of  late  it  has  been  widely  quoted,  but 
with  no  acknowledgment,  so  I  still  think  it  is 
mine.  Are  there  any  other  claimants — and  prior 
to  1880? 

There  were  many  questions  and  decided  differ 
ences  of  opinion.  At  last  one  lady  said:  "Please 
give  us  examples  of  men  who  possess  genius  rather 
than  talent. "  As  she  spoke,  the  door  opened,  and 


Life  in  New  York  91 

in  walked  Mrs.  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman,  wife 
of  the  poet,  and  with  her  a  most  distinguished- 
looking  woman,  Mrs.  William  Whitney.  I  was 
a  little  embarrassed,  but  replied  sweetly,  "  Sheets 
and  Kelley,"  meaning  "Keats  and  Shelley." 
Then  followed  a  wild  laugh  in  which  I  joined. 

Dr.  John  Lord  once  told  me  he  had  a  similar 
shock.  He  spoke  of  "Westford  and  Oxminster, " 
instead  of  ' '  Oxford  and  Westminster, ' '  and  never 
again  could  he  get  it  correctly,  try  as  he  would. 
Neither  his  twist  nor  mine  was  quite  as  bad  as 
that  of  the  speaker  who  said:  "I  feel  within  me  a 
half -warmed  fish;  I  mean  a  half -formed  wish." 

All  genius  [continued  Lady  Henrietta],  whether  it 
is  artistic,  or  literary,  or  spiritual,  is  something  given 
from  outside.  I  once  heard  genius  described  as  know 
ing  by  intuition  what  other  people  know  by  experience. 

Something,  or,  I  should  say,  somebody,  for  it  in 
volves  intelligence  and  knowledge,  tells  you  these 
things,  and  you  just  can't  help  expressing  them  in 
your  own  particular  way,  with  brush,  or  pen,  or  voice, 
whatever  your  individual  instrument  may  be. 

From  Patricia  by  Hon.  Mrs.  ROBERT  HAMILTON. 

It  was  a  pleasure  to  see  that  my  theory  of  Genius 
was  the  same  as  Lady  Henrietta's  in  that  charming 
book  Patricia.  I  have  enough  collected  on  that 
subject  to  give  me  shivers  of  amazement  as  I  read 


92          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

the  mass  of  testimony.     The  mystery  of  Inspira 
tion  has  always  enthralled  me. 

I  was  invited  to  so  many  evenings  "at  home," 
dinners  and  luncheons,  that  I  decided  to  recipro 
cate  and  be  surely  at  home  on  Tuesday  evenings. 
These  affairs  were  very  informal  and  exceedingly 
enjoyable.  There  were  many  who  gladly  enter 
tained  us  by  their  accomplishments.  Champney 
the  artist,  sent  after  blackboard  and  chalk,  and 
did  wonderfully  clever  things.  Some  one  de 
scribed  a  stiff  and  stupid  reception  where  everyone 
seemed  to  have  left  themselves  at  home.  Those 
who  came  to  me  brought  their  best.  Mrs.  Barnard, 
wife  of  President  Barnard  of  Columbia  College, 
urged  me  to  give  three  lectures  in  her  parlour.  I 
could  not  find  the  time,  but  her  house  was  always 
open  to  me.  To  know  Mr.  Barnard  was  a  great 
privilege.  When  called  to  Columbia,  it  was  appar 
ently  dying  from  starvation  for  new  ideas,  and 
stagnant  from  being  too  conservative  and  deep 
in  set  grooves.  His  plans  waked  up  the  sleepers 
and  brought  constant  improvements.  Though 
almost  entirely  deaf,  he  was  never  morose  or  de 
pressed,  but  always  cheerful  and  courageous.  I 
used  to  dine  with  them  often.  Tubes  from  each 
guest  extended  into  one  through  which  he  could 
hear  quite  well.  He  delighted  in  discussion  of 


PRESIDENT    BARNARD    OF    COLUMBIA    COLLEGE 


Life  in  New  York  93 

current  events,  historical  matters,  politics  of  the 
day,  and  was  apparently  well  informed  on  every 
question.  Unlike  Harriet  Martineau,  who  always 
put  down  her  trumpet  when  anyone  dared  to  dis 
agree  with  her  opinions,  he  delighted  in  a  friendly 
controversy  with  anyone  worthy  of  his  steel.  He 
fought  with  patience  and  persistence  for  the  rights 
of  women  to  have  equal  education  with  men,  and 
at  last  gained  his  point,  but  died  before  Barnard 
College  was  in  existence.  Every  student  of  Bar 
nard  ought  to  realize  her  individual  indebtedness 
to  this  great  educator,  regarding  him  as  the 
champion  of  women  and  their  patron  saint. 

He  was  blessed  in  his  home  life.     Mrs.  Barnard 
was  his  shield,  sunshine,  and  strength. 


Studio,  1271  Broadway, 
corner  32d  Street. 
April  8,  1887. 

DEAR  Miss  SANBORN: 

I  send  you  "Ovis  Montana"  or  Mountain  Sheep, 
who  never  enjoyed  the  daily  papers  or  devoured  a 
scrap  of  poetry.  The  only  civilized  thing  he  ever  did 
was  to  give  his  life  for  a  piece  of  cold  lead  and  got 
swindled  at  that. 

To  be  grafted  in  your  Album  is  immortality. 
Sincerely  yours, 

ALBERT  BIERSTADT. 


94          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

This  gift  was  a  big  surprise  to  me.  I  was  then 
corresponding  with  two  Boston  papers  and  one  in 
the  West.  I  thought  it  discourteous  in  the  artists 
of  the  new  Impressionist  school,  to  sneer  a  little 
at  Bierstadt 's  great  paintings,  as  if  he  could  ever 
be  set  back  as  a  bye-gone  or  a  has-been.  And  it 
gave  me  great  pleasure  to  say  so.  I  sent  several 
letters  to  him,  and  one  day  I  received  a  card  asking 
me  to  call  at  his  studio  to  look  over  some  sketches. 
He  said  he  wanted  me  to  help  him  to  select  a  sketch 
out  of  quite  a  pile  on  the  table,  as  he  wished  to 
make  a  painting  of  one  for  a  friend.  I  assured  him 
I  did  not  know  enough  to  do  that,  but  he  insisted 
he  was  so  busy  that  I  must  tell  him  which  I  thought 
would  be  most  effective.  I  looked  at  every  one, 
feeling  quite  important,  and  at  last  selected  the 
Mountain  Sheep  poised  on  a  high  peak  in  a  striking 
pose.  A  rare  sight  then. 

At  Christmas  that  splendid  picture  painted  by 
Bierstadt  was  sent  to  our  apartment  for  me. 
Never  before  had  I  received  such  appreciation  for 
my  amateur  scribbling. 

Ah,  me!  I  was  both  complimented  and  proud. 
But  my  humiliation  soon  came.  When  I  called  to 
thank  the  kind  donor  and  speak  of  the  fine  frame 
the  mountain  big-horn  was  now  in,  I  was  surprised 
to  have  Mr.  Bierstadt  present  to  me  a  tall,  dis- 


A  Big  Surprise  95 

tinguished-looking  foreigner  as  Munkacsy,  the 
well-known  Hungarian  artist.  He  was  most  cor 
dial,  saying  in  French  that  he  was  glad  to  meet  an 
American  woman  who  could  doubtless  answer 
many  questions  he  was  anxious  to  ask.  I  could 
only  partially  get  his  meaning,  so  Bierstadt  trans 
lated  it  to  me.  And  I,  who  could  read  and  trans 
late  French  easily,  had  never  found  time  to  learn 
to  chat  freely  in  any  language  but  my  own.  I 
could  have  cried  right  there;  it  was  so  mortifying, 
and  I  was  losing  such  a  pleasure.  I  had  the  same 
pathetic  experience  with  a  Russian  artist,  Verest- 
chagin,  whose  immense  picture,  revealing  the 
horrors  of  war,  was  then  on  exhibition  in  New 
York. 

Again  and  again  I  have  felt  like  a  dummy,  if  not 
an  idiot,  in  such  a  position.  I  therefore  beg  all 
young  persons  to  determine  to  speak  and  write  at 
least  one  language  beside  their  own. 

Tom  Hood  wrote : 

"Never  go  to  France 
Unless  you  know  the  lingo 
If  you  do,  like  me, 
You'll  repent  by  jingo." 

But  it's  even  worse  to  be  unable  in  your  own 
country  to  greet  and  talk  with  guests  from  other 
countries. 


96          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

I  should  like  to  see  the  dead  languages,  as  well 
as  Saxon  and  Sanscrit,  made  elective  studies 
every  where;  also  the  higher  mathematics,  mystic 
metaphysics,  and  studies  of  the  conscious  and  sub 
conscious,  the  ego  and  non-ego,  matters  of  such 
uncertain  study.  When  one  stops  to  realize  the 
tragic  brevity  of  life  on  this  earth,  and  to  learn 
from  statistics  what  proportion  of  each  generation 
dies  in  infancy,  in  childhood,  in  early  maturity, 
and  how  few  reach  the  Biblical  limit  of  life,  it 
seems  unnecessary  to  regard  a  brain-wearying 
' '  curriculum ' '  as  essential  or  even  sensible.  Taine 
gives  us  in  his  work  on  English  Literature  a  Saxon 
description  of  life:  "A  bird  flying  from  the  dark, 
a  moment  in  the  light,  then  swiftly  passing  out 
into  the  darkness  beyond. " 

And  really  why  do  we  study  as  if  we  were  to 
rival  the  ante-diluvians  in  age.  Then  wake  up  to 
the  facts.  I  have  been  assured,  by  those  who 
know,  that  but  a  small  proportion  of  college  grad 
uates  are  successful  or  even  heard  of.  They 
appear  at  commencement,  sure  that  they  are  to  do 
great  things,  make  big  money,  at  least  marry  an 
heiress;  they  are  turned  out  like  buttons,  only  to 
find  out  how  hard  it  is  to  get  anything  to  do  for 
good  pay.  One  multi-millionaire  of  Boston,  whose 
first  wages  he  told  me  were  but  four  dollars  a  month, 


Dr.  R.  Ogden  Doremus  97 

said  there  was  no  one  he  so  dreaded  to  see  coming 
into  his  office  as  a  college  man  who  must  have  help, 
— seldom  able  to  write  a  legible  hand,  or  to  add 
correctly  a  column  of  figures.  There  is  solid  food 
for  thought. 

Lowell  said  that  "great  men  come  in  clusters.*' 
That  is  true,  but  it  is  equally  true  that  once  in  a 
great  while,  we  are  vouchsafed  a  royal  guest,  a 
man  who  mingles  freely  with  the  ordinary  throng, 
yet  stands  far  above  them;  a  man  who  can  wrest 
the  primal  secrets  from  nature's  closed  hand,  who 
makes  astounding  discoveries,  only  to  gladly 
disclose  them  to  others. 

Such  an  unusual  genius  was  Professor  Robert 
Ogden  Doremus,  whose  enthusiasm  was  only 
matched  by  his  modesty.  In  studying  what  he 
accomplished,  I  wonder  whether  he  was  not  sent 
from  the  central  yet  universal  "powers  that  be" 
to  give  us  answers  to  some  of  the  riddles  of  life; 
or  had  he  visited  so  many  planets  further  advanced 
than  our  own — for  as  Jean  Paul  Richter  wrote 
"There  is  no  end" — that  he  had  learned  that  the 
supposedly  impossible  could  be  done.  He  as 
sisted  John  W.  Draper  in  taking  the  first  photo 
graph  of  the  human  face  ever  made.  Science  with 
him  was  never  opposed  to  religion.  His  moving 


98          Memories  and  Anecdotes 

pictures  and  spectral  analysis  were  almost  miracles 
at  that  time.  He  delighted  to  show  how  the  earth 
in  forming  was  flattened  at  the  poles,  and  he  would 
illustrate  the  growth  of  the  rings  of  Saturn.  As 
a  lecturer  he  was  a  star,  the  only  chemist  and 
scientist  to  offer  experiments.  His  lectures  were 
always  attended  by  crowds  of  admirers.  As  a 
toxicologist  he  was  marvellous  in  his  accuracy ;  no 
poisoner  could  escape  his  exact  analysis.  His 
compressed  cartridges,  made  waterproof  and  coated 
with  collodion,  were  used  in  the  blasting  operations 
at  the  Mont  Cenis  tunnel  through  eight  miles  of 
otherwise  impenetrable  stone,  solid  Alpine  rock, 
between  France  and  Italy. 

When  the  obelisk  in  Central  Park  showed  signs 
of  serious  decay,  he  saved  the  hieroglyphics  by 
ironing  it  with  melted  parafine.  He  makes  us 
think  of  the  juggler  who  can  keep  a  dozen  balls  in 
the  air  as  if  it  were  an  easy  trick,  never  dropping 
one. 

But  I  forget  to  give  my  own  memories  of  Dr.  and 
Mrs.  Doremus  in  their  delightful  home  on  Fourth 
Avenue  between  i8th  and  iQth  Streets, — a  home 
full  of  harmony,  melody,  peace,  and  love.  Vin- 
cenzo  Botta  called  Dr.  Doremus  the  "Maecenas 
of  New  York,"  and  his  beautiful  wife,  the  ideal 
wife  and  mother,  was  named  by  her  adoring  hus- 


PROFESSOR    R.    OGDEN    DOREMUS 


Dr.  R.  Ogden  Doremus  99 

band  the  "queen  of  women."  Mrs.  Doremus 
was  prominent  in  New  York's  various  societies 
and  charities,  but  the  interests  of  her  own  family 
came  first.  One  of  her  sons  said:  "She  never 
neglected  her  children;  we  were  always  loved  and 
well  cared  for."  Both  Dr.  Doremus  and  his 
wife  were  devoted  to  music,  always  of  the  best. 
He  was  the  first  president  of  the  Philharmonic 
Society  who  was  not  a  musician  by  profession. 
All  the  preceding  presidents  had  been  selected 
from  the  active  musicians  in  the  society.  One 
evening  he  was  serenaded  by  the  Philharmonic 
Society  under  the  leadership  of  Carl  Bergman, 
the  recently  elected  president  of  the  society. 
After  the  classic  music  had  ceased,  Dr.  Dore 
mus  appeared  and  thanked  the  society  for  the 
compliment.  All  were  invited  into  the  house, 
where  a  bountiful  collation  was  served  and 
speeches  made.  If  you  could  see  the  photograph 
of  the  Philharmonic  Society  serenading  Dr.  and 
Mrs.  Doremus  at  their  home,  you  would  get  a  rare 
insight  into  the  old  New  York  life,  as  compared 
with  the  present,  in  which  such  a  thing  would  be 
impossible.  He  said  that  his  mother  used  to  take 
a  cup  of  tea  at  the  Battery  afternoons  with  her 
sons. 

He  was  a  lifelong  friend  of  Christine  Nilsson 


ioo         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

whom  he  considered  the  greatest  vocal  and  dra 
matic  genius  of  the  age.  He  wrote:  "Never  did 
mortal  woman  sing  as  she  sang  that  simple  song 
that  begins : 

'Angels,  Angels,  bright  and  fair, 
Take,  0  take  me  to  thy  care!'" 

I  saw  Nilsson  and  Parepa  introduced  there,  who 
were  to  sail  on  the  same  steamer  in  a  few  days. 
Nilsson  made  the  banjo  fashionable  in  New  York 
society,  accompanying  herself  charmingly.  All 
the  famous  opera  singers  regarded  the  house  of 
Dr.  Doremus  a  place  where  they  were  thoroughly 
at  home,  and  always  welcome.  Ole  Bull  was  for 
many  years  his  most  devoted  friend.  Dr.  Doremus 
writes : 

I  recall  that  once  when  I  was  dining  with  Ole  Bull, 
at  the  house  of  a  friend,  our  host  said : '  Doctor,  I  don't 
think  much  of  Ole  Bull's  fiddling;  you  know  what  I 
mean — I  don't  think  much  of  his  fiddling  as  compared 
with  his  great  heart.' 

Mr.  Edwin  Booth,  once  walking  with  me, 
dropped  my  arm  and  exclaimed  with  a  dramatic 
gesture:  "Ole  Bull  wasn't  a  man — he  was  a  god!'* 

The  last  time  I  had  the  privilege  of  listening  to 
Ole  Bull's  witchery  with  his  violin,  he  gave  an 
hour  to  Norwegian  folk-songs,  his  wife  at  the  piano. 


Dr.  R.  Ogden  Doremus          101 

She  played  with  finish,  feeling,  and  restraint.  She 
first  went  through  the  air,  theft:  He  joined  in  wfth 
his  violin  with  indescribable  charm.  Critics  said 
he  lacked  technique.  I  am  glad  he  did :  his  music 
went  straight  to  the  heart.  At  the  last  he  told  us 
he  would  give  the  tune  always  played  after  a  wed 
ding  when  the  guests  had  stayed  long  enough — 
usually  three  days — and  their  departure  was  de 
sired.  We  were  to  listen  for  one  shrill  note  which 
was  imperative.  No  one  would  care  or  dare  to 
remain  after  that. 

Dr.  Doremus  showed  me  one  evening  a  watch 
he  was  wearing,  saying: 

In  Ole  Bull's  last  illness  when  he  no  longer  had 
strength  to  wind  his  watch,  he  asked  his  wife  to  wind 
it  for  him,  and  then  send  it  to  his  best  friend,  saying: 
*  I  want  it  to  go  ticking  from  my  heart  to  his. ' 

That  watch  magnetized  by  human  love  passing 
through  it  is  now  in  the  possession  of  Arthur  Lis- 
penard  Doremus,  to  whom  it  was  left  by  his  father. 
It  had  to  be  wound  by  a  key  in  the  old  fashion,  and 
it  ran  in  perfect  time  for  twenty-nine  years.  Then 
it  became  worn  and  was  sent  to  a  watchmaker  for 
repairs.  It  is  still  a  reliable  timekeeper,  quite  a 
surprising  story,  as  the  greatest  length  of  time 
before  this  was  twenty-four  years  for  a  watch  to 
run. 


102         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

I  think  of  .these  rare  souls,  Ole  Bull  and  Dr. 
Dcremus,  as  reunited,  and  with  their  loved  ones 
advancing  to  greater  heights,  constantly  receiving 
new  revelations  of  omnipotent  power,  which  "it  is 
not  in  the  heart  of  man  to  conceive. " 

LINES 

Read  at  the  Celebration  of  the  Seventieth  Birthday 
of  DOCTOR  R.  OGDEN  DOREMUS,  January 
nth,  1894,  at  241  Madison  Avenue,  by 
LUTHER  R.  MARSH. 

What  shall  be  said  for  good  Doctor  Doremus? 
To  speak  of  him  well,  it  well  doth  beseem  us. 
Not  one  single  fault,  through  his  seventy  years, 
Has  ever  been  noticed  by  one  of  his  peers. 

How  flawless  a  life,  and  how  useful  withal ! 

P  ulfilling  his  duties  at  every  call ! 

Come  North  or  come  South,  come  East  or  come  West, 

He  ever  is  ready  to  work  for  the  best. 

In  Chemics,  the  Doctor  stands  first  on  the  list ; 
The  nature,  he  knows,  of  all  things  that  exist. 
He  lets  loose  the  spirits  of  earth,  rock  or  water, 
And  drives  them  through  solids,  cemented  with  mortar. 

How  deftly  he  handles  the  retort  and  decanter ! 
Makes    lightning    and    thunder    would    scare    Tarn 

O'Shanter; 

Makes  feathers  as  heavy  as  lead,  in  a  jar, 
And  eliminates  spirits  from  coal  and  from  tar. 


Dr.  R.  Ogden  Doremus          103 

By  a  touch  of  his  finger  he'll  turn  lead  or  tin 
To  invisible  gas,  and  then  back  again; 
He  will  set  them  aflame,  as  in  the  last  day, 
When  all  things  are  lit  by  the  Sun's  hottest  ray. 

With  oxygen,  hydrogen,  nitrogen, — all — 
No  gas  can  resist  his  imperative  call — 
He'll  solidify,  liquefy,  or  turn  into  ice; 
Or  all  of  them  re-convert,  back  in  a  trice. 

Amid  oxides  and  alkalies,  bromides  and  salts, 
He  makes  them  all  dance  in  a  chemical  waltz; 
And  however  much  he  with  acids  may  play, 
There's  never  a  drop  stains  his  pure  mortal  clay. 

He  well  knows  what  things  will  affect  one  another; 
What  acts  as  an  enemy,  and  what  as  a  brother; 
He  feels  quite  at  home  with  all  chemic  affinities, 
And  treats  them  respectfully,  as  mystic  Divinities. 

His  wisdom  is  spread  from  far  Texas  to  Maine; 
For  thousands  on  thousands  have  heard  him  explain 
The  secrets  of  Nature,  and  all  her  arcana, 
From  the  youth  of  the  Gulf,  to  the  youth  of  Montana. 

In  Paris,  Doremus  may  compress'd  powder  compound, 
Or,  at  home,  wrap  the  Obelisk  with  paraffine  round; 
Or  may  treat  Toxicology  ever  anew, 
To  enrich  the  bright  students  of  famous  Belle vue. 

He  believes  in  the  spirits  of  all  physical  things, 
And  can  make  them  fly  round  as  if  they  had  wings ; 
But  ask  him  to  show  you  the  Spirit  of  Man — 
He  hesitates  slightly,  saying,  "See! — if  you  can." 


104         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

Wherever  he  comes  there  always  is  cheer; 
If  absent,  you  miss  him;  you're  glad  when  he's  near; 
His  voice  is  a  trumpet  that  stirreth  the  blood ; 
You  feel  that  he's  cheery,  and  you  know  that  he's 
good. 

No  doors  in  the  city  have  swung  open  so  wide, 
To  artists  at  home,  and  to  those  o'er  the  tide; 
As,  to  Mario,  Sontag,  Badiali,  Marini, 
To  Nilsson  and  Phillips,  Rachel  and  Salvini. 

Much,  much  does  he  owe,  for  the  grace  of  his  life, 
To  the  influence  ever  of  his  beautiful  wife ; 
She,  so  grand  and  so  stately,  so  true  and  so  kind, 
So  lovely  in  person  and  so  charming  in  mind ! 

I  had  the  pleasure  of  being  well  acquainted  with 
Mr.  Charles  H.  Webb,  a  truly  funny  "  funny  man, " 
who  had  homes  in  New  York  and  Nantucket.  His 
slight  stutter  only  added  to  the  effect  of  his  hu 
morous  talk.  His  letters  to  the  New  York  Tribune 
from  Long  Branch,  Saratoga,  etc.,  were  widely 
read.  He  knew  that  he  wrote  absolute  nonsense 
at  times,  but  nonsense  is  greatly  needed  in  this 
world,  and  exquisitely  droll  nonsensical  nonsense 
is  as  uncommon  as  common  sense.  The  titles  of 
his  various  books  are  inviting  and  informing,  as 
Seaweed  and  What  We  Seed.  He  wrote  several 
parodies  on  sensational  novels  of  his  time.  Griffith 
Gaunt,  he  made  fun  of  as  ' '  Liffith  Lank  " ;  St.  Elmo, 
as  "St.  Twelmo. "  A  Wicked  Woman  was  another 


Charles  H.  Webb  105 

absurd  tale.  But  I  like  best  a  large  volume, 
"  John  Paul's  Book,  moral  and  instructive,  travels, 
tales,  poetry,  and  like  fabrications,  with  several 
portraits  of  the  author  and  other  spirited  engrav 
ings."  This  book  was  dedicated,  "To  the  Bald- 
Headed,  that  noble  and  shining  army  of  martyrs. " 
When  you  turn  to  look  at  his  portrait,  and  the 
illuminated  title  page,  you  find  them  not.  The 
Frontispiece  picture  is  upside  down.  The  very 
ridiculosity  of  his  easy  daring  to  do  or  say  anything 
is  taking.  He  once  wrote,  in  one  of  those  trying 
books,  with  which  we  used  to  be  bored  stiff,  with 
questions  such  as  "What  is  your  favourite  hour  of 
the  day?  He  wrote  dinner  hour;  what  book  not 
sacred  would  you  part  with  last?  My  pocket- 
book.  Your  favourite  motto?  When  you  must, 
— you  better."  I  especially  liked  the  poem, 
"The  Outside  Dog  in  the  Fight."  Here  are  two 
specimens  of  his  prose: 

The  fish-hawk  is  not  an  eagle.  Mountain  heights 
and  clouds  he  never  scales;  fish  are  more  in  his  way,  he 
scales  them — possibly  regarding  them  as  scaly-wags. 
For  my  bird  is  pious;  a  stern  conservator  is  he  of  the 
public  morals.  Last  Sunday  a  frivolous  fish  was  play 
ing  not  far  from  the  beach,  and  Dr.  Hawk  went  out  and 
stopped  him.  'Tis  fun  to  watch  him  at  that  sort  of 
work — stopping  play — though  somehow  it  does  not 
seem  to  amuse  the  fish  much.  Up  in  the  air  he  poises 


io6         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

pensively,  hanging  on  hushed  wings  as  though  listen 
ing  for  sounds — maybe  a  fish's.  By  and  by  he  hears 
a  herring — is  he  hard  of  herring,  think  you?  Then 
down  he  drops  and  soon  has  a  Herring  Safe.  (Send 
me  something,  manufacturers,  immediately.)  Does 
he  tear  his  prey  from  limb  to  limb?  No,  he  merely 
sails  away  through  the  blue  ether — how  happy  can  he 
be  with  either! — till  the  limb  whereon  his  own  nest 
is  built  is  reached.  Does  the  herring  enjoy  that  sort 
of  riding,  think  you?  Quite  as  much,  I  should  say, 
as  one  does  hack-driving.  From  my  point  of  view,  the 
hawk  is  but  the  hackman  of  the  air.  Sympathize  with 
the  fish  ?  Not  much.  Nor  would  you  if  you  heard  the 
pitiful  cry  the  hawk  sets  up  the  moment  he  finds  that 
his  claws  are  tangled  in  a  fish's  back.  Home  he  flies 
to  seek  domestic  consolation,  uttering  the  while  the 
weeping  cry  of  a  grieved  child;  there  are  tears  in  his 
voice,  so  you  know  the  fish  must  be  hurting  him. 
The  idea  that  a  hawk  can't  fly  over  the  water  of  an 
afternoon  without  some  malicious  fish  jumping  up 
and  trying  to  bite  him ! 

If  a  fish  wants  to  cross  the  water  safely,  let  him  take 
a  Fulton  ferryboat  for  it.  There  he  will  find  a  sign 
reading: 

"No  Peddling  or  Hawking  allowed  in  this  cabin." 
Strange  that  hawking  should  be  so  sternly  prohibited 
on  boats  which  are  mainly  patronized  by  Brooklynites 
chronically  afflicted  with  catarrh ! 

Never  shall  it  be  said  that  I  put  my  hand  to  the 
plow  and  turned  back.  For  that  matter  never  shall 
it  be  said  of  me  that  I  put  hand  to  a  plow  at  all,  unless 
a  plow  should  chase  me  upstairs  and  into  the  privacy 
of  my  bed-room,  and  then  I  should  only  put  hand  to  it 


Charles  H.  Webb  107 

for  the  purpose  of  throwing  it  out  of  the  window. 
The  beauty  of  the  farmer's  life  was  never  very  clear 
to  me.  As  for  its  boasted  "independence,"  in  the 
part  of  the  country  I  came  from,  there  was  never  a 
farm  that  was  not  mortgaged  for  about  all  it  was 
worth;  never  a  farmer  who  was  not  in  debt  up  to  his 
chin  at  "the  store. "  Contented!  When  it  rains  the 
farmer  grumbles  because  he  can't  hoe  or  do  something 
else  to  his  crops,  and  when  it  does  not  rain,  he  grumbles 
because  his  crops  do  not  grow.  Hens  are  the  only  ones 
on  a  farm  that  are  not  in  a  perpetual  worry  and  fer 
ment  about  "crops:"  they  fill  theirs  with  whatever 
comes  along,  whether  it  be  an  angleworm,  a  kernel  of 
corn,  or  a  small  cobblestone,  and  give  thanks  just  the 
same. 

THE   OUTSIDE  DOG   IN   THE  FIGHT 

You  may  sing  of  your  dog,  your  bottom  dog, 

Or  of  any  dog  that  you  please, 
I  go  for  the  dog,  the  wise  old  dog, 

That  knowingly  takes  his  ease, 
And,  wagging  his  tail  outside  the  ring, 

Keeping  always  his  bone  in  sight, 
Cares  not  a  pin  in  his  wise  old  head 

For  either  dog  in  the  fight. 

Not  his  is  the  bone  they  are  fighting  for, 

And  why  should  my  dog  sail  in, 
With  nothing  to  gain  but  a  certain  chance 

To  lose  his  own  precious  skin ! 
There  may  be  a  few,  perhaps,  who  fail 

To  see  it  in  quite  this  light, 
But  when  the  fur  flies  I  had  rather  be 

The  outside  dog  in  the  fight. 


io8         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

I  know  there  are  dogs — most  generous  dogs 

Who  think  it  is  quite  the  thing 
To  take  the  part  of  the  bottom  dog, 

And  go  yelping  into  the  ring. 
I  care  not  a  pin  what  the  world  may  say 

In  regard  to  the  wrong  or  right; 
My  money  goes  as  well  as  my  song, 

For  the  dog  that  keeps  out  of  the  fight! 

Mr.  Webb,  like  Charles  Lamb  and  the  late  Mr. 
Travers,  stammered  just  enough  to  give  piquancy 
to  his  conversation.  To  facilitate  enunciation 
he  placed  a  ' '  g  "  before  the  letters  which  it  was  hard 
for  him  to  pronounce.  We  were  talking  of  the 
many  sad  and  sudden  deaths  from  pneumonia, 
bronchitis,  etc.,  during  the  recent  spring  season, 
and  then  of  the  insincerity  of  poets  who  sighed  for 
death  and  longed  for  a  summons  to  depart.  He 
said  in  his  deliciously  slow  and  stumbling  manner : 
"I  don't  want  the  ger-pneu-m-mon-ia.  I'm  in  no 
ger-hurry  to  ger-go. "  Mrs.  Webb's  drawing- 
rooms  were  filled  with  valuable  pictures  and 
bronzes,  and  her  Thursday  Evenings  at  home 
were  a  delight  to  many. 

How  little  we  sometimes  know  of  the  real  spirit 
and  the  inner  life  of  some  noble  man  or  woman. 
Mrs.  Hermann  was  a  remarkable  instance  of  this. 
I  thought  I  was  well  acquainted  with  Mrs.  Esther 
Hermann,  who,  in  her  home,  59  West  fifty-sixth 


Mrs.  Hermann  109 

Street  New  York,  was  always  entertaining  her  many 
friends.  Often  three  evenings  a  week  were  given 
to  doing  something  worth  while  for  someone,  or 
giving  opportunity  for  us  to  hear  some  famous 
man  or  woman  speak,  who  was  interested  in  some 
great  project.  And  her  refreshments,  after  the 
hour  of  listening  was  over,  were  of  the  most 
generous  and  delicious  kind.  Hers  was  a  lavish 
hospitality.  It  was  all  so  easily  and  quietly  done, 
that  no  one  realized  that  those  delightful  evenings 
were  anything  but  play  to  her.  She  became  inter 
ested  in  me  when  I  was  almost  a  novice  in  the 
lecture  field,  gave  me  two  benefits,  invited  those 
whom  she  thought  would  enjoy  my  talks,  and 
might  also  be  of  service  to  me.  There  was  never 
the  slightest  stiffness ;  if  one  woman  was  there  for 
the  first  time,  and  a  stranger,  Mrs.  Hermann  and 
her  daughters  saw  that  there  were  plenty  of  intro 
ductions  and  an  escort  engaged  to  take  the  lady  to 
the  supper  room.  Mrs.  Hermann  in  those  early 
days,  often  took  me  to  drive  in  the  park — a  great 
treat.  We  chatted  merrily  together,  and  I  still 
fancied  I  knew  her.  But  her  own  family  did  not 
know  of  her  great  benefactions ;  her  son  only  knew 
by  looking  over  her  check  books,  after  her  death, 
how  much  she  had  given  away.  Far  from  blazon 
ing  it  abroad,  she  insisted  on  secrecy.  She  in- 


no         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

vited  Mr.  Henry  Fairfield  Osborn  to  call,  who  was 
keenly  interested  in  securing  money  to  start  a 
Natural  History  Museum,  he  bringing  a  friend 
with  him.  After  they  had  owned  that  they  found 
it  impossible  even  to  gain  the  first  donation,  she 
handed  Mr.  Osborn,  after  expressing  her  interest, 
a  check  for  ten  thousand  dollars.  At  first  he 
thought  he  would  not  open  it  in  her  presence,  but 
later  did  so.  He  was  amazed  and  said  very  grate 
fully:  "Madam,  I  will  have  this  recognized  at 
once  by  the  Society."  She  said:  "I  want  no 
recognition.  If  you  insist,  I  shall  take  back  the 
envelope."  Her  daughter  describes  her  enthusi 
asm  one  very  stormy,  cold  Sunday.  Stephen  S. 
Wise,  the  famous  rabbi,  was  advertised  to  preach 
in  the  morning  at  such  a  place.  "Mother  was 
there  in  a  front  seat  early,  eager  to  get  every  word 
of  wisdom  that  fell  from  his  lips."  Mr.  Wise 
spoke  at  the  Free  Synagogue  Convention  at  three 
o'clock  P.M.  "Mother  was  there  promptly  again, 
in  front,  her  dark  eyes  glowing  with  intense  inter 
est."  At  eight  P.M.  he  spoke  at  another  hall  on 
the  other  side  of  the  city,  "Mother  was  there." 
At  the  close,  Mr.  Wise  stepped  down  from  the 
platform  to  shake  hands  with  Mrs.  Hermann,  and 
said,  "I  am  surprised  at  seeing  you  at  these  three 
meetings,  and  in  such  bad  weather. "  She  replied, 


Mrs.  Hermann  in 

"Why  should  you  be  surprised;  you  were  at  all 
three,  weren't  you?" 

She  had  a  long  life  of  perfect  health  and  never 
paid  the  least  attention  to  the  worst  of  weather 
if  she  had  a  duty  to  perform. 

There  was  something  of  the  fairy  godmother  in 
this  large-hearted  woman,  whose  modesty  equalled 
her  generosity.  She  dropped  gifts  by  the  way, 
always  eager  to  help,  and  anxious  to  keep  out  of 
sight.  Mrs.  Hermann  was  one  of  those  women 
who  sow  the  seeds  of  kindness  with  a  careless  hand, 
and  help  to  make  waste  places  beautiful.  She 
became  deeply  interested  in  education  early  in  life, 
and  her  faith  was  evidenced  by  her  work.  She 
was  one  of  the  founders  of  Barnard  College.  Her 
checks  became  very  familiar  to  the  treasurers  of 
many  educational  enterprises.  She  was  one  of 
the  patrons  of  the  American  Association  for  the 
Advancement  of  Sciences,  and  many  years  ago 
gave  one  thousand  dollars  to  aid  the  Association. 
Since  then  she  has  added  ten  thousand  dollars  as 
a  nucleus  toward  the  erection  of  a  building  to  be 
called  the  Academy  of  Science.  With  the  same 
generous  spirit  she  contributed  ten  thousand  dol 
lars  to  the  Young  Men's  Hebrew  Association  for 
educational  purposes.  It  was  for  the  purpose  of 
giving  teachers  the  opportunity  of  studying  botany 


ii2         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

from  nature,  that  she  gave  ten  thousand  dollars 
to  the  Botanical  Garden  in  the  Bronx. 

Her  knowledge  of  the  great  need  for  a  technical 
school  for  Jewish  boys  preyed  on  her  mind  at 
night  so  that  she  could  not  sleep,  and  she  felt  it 
was  wrong  to  be  riding  about  the  city  when  these 
boys  could  be  helped.  She  sold  her  carriages  and 
horses,  walked  for  three  years  instead  of  riding,  and 
sent  a  large  check  to  start  the  school.  It  is  pleas 
ant  to  recall  that  the  boys  educated  there  have 
turned  out  wonderfully  well,  some  of  them  very 
clever  electricians. 

I  could  continue  indefinitely  naming  the  acts 
of  generosity  of  this  noble  woman,  but  we  have 
said  enough  to  show  why  her  many  friends  desired 
to  express  their  appreciation  of  her  sterling  virtues, 
and  their  love  for  the  gentle  lady,  whose  kindness 
has  given  happiness  to  countless  numbers.  To 
this  end,  some  of  her  friends  planned  to  give  her  a 
a  testimonial,  and  called  together  representatives 
from  the  hundred  and  twenty-five  different  clubs 
and  organizations  of  which  she  was  a  member,  to 
consider  the  project.  This  suggestion  was  received 
with  such  enthusiasm  that  a  committee  was  ap 
pointed  who  arranged  a  fitting  tribute  worthy  of 
the  occasion. 

The  poem  with  which  I  close  my  tribute  to  my 


Mrs.  Hermann  113 

dear  friend,  Mrs.  Hermann,  is  especially  fitting  to 
her  beautiful  life.  Her  family,  even  after  they 
were  all  married  and  in  happy  homes  of  their  own, 
were  expected  by  the  mother  every  Sunday  even 
ing.  These  occasions  were  inexpressibly  dear  to  her 
warm  heart,  devoted  to  her  children  and  grand 
children.  But  owing  to  her  reticence  she  was  even 
to  them  really  unknown. 

I  had  given  at  first  many  more  instances  of  her 
almost  daily  ministrations  but  later  this  seemed  to 
be  in  direct  opposition  to  her  oft-expressed  wish 
for  no  recognition  of  her  gifts.  "We  are  spirits 
clad  in  veils,"  but  of  Mrs.  Hermann  this  was  espe 
cially  true  and  I  love  her  memory  too  well  not  to 
regard  her  wishes  as  sacred. 

GNOSIS 

Thought  is  deeper  than  all  speech, 

Feeling  deeper  than  all  thought; 
Souls  to  souls  can  never  teach 

What  unto  themselves  was  taught. 

We  are  spirits  clad  in  veils; 

Man  by  man  was  never  seen; 
All  our  deep  communing  fails 

To  remove  the  shadowy  screen. 

Heart  to  heart  was  never  known; 

Mind  with  mind  did  never  meet; 
We  are  columns  left  alone 

Of  a  temple  once  complete. 

8 


ii4         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

Like  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky, 

Far  apart,  though  seeming  near, 
In  our  light  we  scattered  lie; 

All  is  thus  but  starlight  here. 

What  is  social  company, 

But  the  babbling  summer  stream? 

What  our  wise  philosophy 
But  the  glancing  of  a  dream? 

Only  when  the  sun  of  love 

Melts  the  scattered  stars  of  thought, 

Only  when  we  live  above 

What  the  dim-eyed  world  hath  taught, 

Only  when  our  souls  are  fed 

By  the  fount  which  gave  them  birth, 

And  by  inspiration  led 

Which  they  never  drew  from  earth. 

We,  like  parted  drops  of  rain, 

Swelling  till  they  meet  and  run, 
Shall  be  all  absorbed  again, 

Melting,  flowing  into  one. 
CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH  (1813-1892). 

Cranch's  own  title  for  this  poem  was  "Enosis," 
not  "Gnosis"  as  now  given;  "Enosis"  being  a 
Greek  word  meaning  "  all  in  one,"  which  is 
illustrated  by  the  last  verse. 

It  was  first  published  in  the  Dial  in  1844. 
"Stanzas"  appeared  at  the  head,  and  at  the  end 
was  his  initial,  "C." 


CHAPTER  IV 

Three  Years  at  Smith  College — Appreciation  of  Its  Founder — A 
Successful  Lecture  Tour — My  Trip  to  Alaska. 

"  THERE  is  nothing  so  certain  as  the  unex 
pected,"  and  "if  you  fit  yourself  for  the  wall,  you 
will  be  put  in." 

I  was  in  danger  of  being  spoiled  by  kindness  in 
New  York  and  the  surrounding  towns,  if  not  in 
danger  of  a  breakdown  from  constant  activity, 
literary  and  social,  with  club  interests  and  week 
end  visits  at  homes  of  delightful  friends  on  the 
Hudson,  when  I  was  surprised  and  honoured  by  a 
call  from  President  L.  Clark  Seelye  of  Smith  Col 
lege,  Northampton,  Massachusetts,  who  invited 
me  to  take  the  position  of  teacher  of  English  Liter 
ature  at  that  college. 

I  accepted,  and  remained  at  Northampton  for 
three  years,  from  1880-1883.  It  was  a  busy  life. 
I  went  on  Saturday  afternoons  to  a  class  of  married 
ladies  at  Mrs.  Terhune's  (Marion  Harland)  in 
Springfield,  Massachusetts,  where  her  husband  was 

us 


n6         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

a  clergyman  in  one  of  the  largest  churches  in  that 
city.  I  also  published  several  books,  and  at  least 
two  Calendars,  while  trying  to  make  the  students 
at  Smith  College  enthusiastic  workers  in  my 
department. 

Mrs.  Terhune  was  a  versatile  and  entertaining 
woman,  a  most  practical  housekeeper;  and  she 
could  tell  the  very  best  ghost  story  I  ever  heard, 
for  it  is  of  a  ghost  who  for  many  years  was  the 
especial  property  of  her  father's  family. 

When  I  gave  evening  lectures  at  Mrs.  Terhune 's 
while  at  Smith  College,  I  was  accustomed  to  spend 
the  night  there.  She  always  insisted  upon  rising 
early  to  see  that  the  table  was  set  properly  for  me, 
and  she  often  would  bring  in  something  specially 
tempting  of  her  own  cooking.  A  picture  I  can 
never  forget  is  that  of  Doctor  Terhune  who,  before 
offering  grace  at  meals,  used  to  stretch  out  a  hand 
to  each  of  his  daughters,  and  so  more  closely 
include  them  in  his  petition. 

I  used  no  special  text-book  while  at  Smith  Col 
lege,  and  requested  my  class  to  question  me  ten 
minutes  at  the  close  of  every  recitation.  Each 
girl  brought  a  commonplace  book  to  the  recitation 
room  to  take  notes  as  I  talked.  Some  of  them 
showed  great  power  of  expression  while  writing 
on  the  themes  provided.  There  was  a  monthly 


Smith  College  117 

examination,  often  largely  attended  by  friends  out 
of  town.  I  still  keep  up  my  interest  in  my  pupils 
of  that  day.  One  of  them  told  me  that  they 
thought  at  first  I  was  currying  popularity,  I  was 
so  cordial  and  even  affectionate,  but  they  confessed 
they  were  mistaken. 

Under  President  Seelye's  wise  management, 
Smith  College  has  taken  a  high  position,  and  is 
constantly  growing  better.  The  tributes  to  his 
thirty-seven  years  in  service  when  he  resigned 
prove  how  thoroughly  he  was  appreciated.  I 
give  a  few  extracts: 

We  wish  to  record  the  fact  that  this  has  been,  in  a 
unique  degree,  your  personal  work.  If  you  had  given 
the  original  sum  which  called  the  College  into  being, 
and  had  left  its  administration  to  others,  you  would 
have  been  less  truly  the  creator  of  the  institution  than 
you  have  been  through  your  executive  efficiency. 
Your  plans  have  seldom  been  revised  by  the  Board  of 
Trustees,  and  your  selection  of  teachers  has  brought 
together  a  faculty  which  is  at  least  equal  to  the  best 
of  those  engaged  in  the  education  of  women.  You 
have  secured  for  the  teachers  a  freedom  of  instruction 
which  has  inspired  them  to  high  attainment  and  fruit 
ful  work.  You,  with  them,  have  given  to  the  College 
a  commanding  position  in  the  country,  and  have 
secured  for  it  and  for  its  graduates  universal  respect. 
The  deep  foundations  for  its  success  have  been  intel 
lectual  and  spiritual,  and  its  abiding  work  has  been 
the  building  up  of  character  by  contact  with  character. 


n8         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

Fortunate  in  her  location,  fortunate  in  her  large 
minded  trustees,  fortunate  in  the  loyal  devotedness  of 
her  faculty  and  supremely  fortunate  has  our  College 
been  in  the  consecrated  creative  genius  of  her  illustrious 
president.  Bringing  to  his  task  a  noble  ideal,  with 
rare  sagacity  as  an  administrator;  with  financial  and 
economic  skill  rarely  found  in  a  scholar  and  idealist, 
but  necessary  to  foster  into  fullest  fruitfulness  the 
slender  pecuniary  resources  then  at  hand;  with  tact 
and  suavity  which  made  President  Seelye's  "no," 
if  no  were  needed,  more  gracious  than  "yes"  from 
others;  with  the  force  which  grasps  difficulties  fear 
lessly;  with  dignified  scholarship  and  a  courtly  manner, 
the  master  builder  of  our  College,  under  whose  hand 
the  little  one  has  become  a  thousand  and  the  small  one 
a  strong  republic,  has  achieved  the  realization  of  his 
high  ideal  and  is  crowned  with  honour  and  affection. 

He  has  made  one  ashamed  of  any  but  the  highest 
motives,  and  has  taught  us  that  sympathy  and  love 
for  mankind  are  the  traits  for  which  to  strive.  The 
ideals  of  womanly  life  which  he  instilled  will  ever  be 
held  high  before  us. 

There  are  many  distinguished  qualities  which  a 
college  president  must  possess.  He  must  be  idealist, 
creator,  executor,  financier,  and  scholar.  President 
Seel  ye — is  all  these — but  he  had  another  and  a  rarer 
gift  which  binds  and  links  these  qualities  together, 
as  the  chain  on  which  jewels  are  strung — President 
Seelye  had  immense  capacity  for  work  and  patient 
attention  for  details.  It  is  this  unusual  combination 
which  has  given  us  a  great  College,  and  has  given  to 
our  president  a  unique  position  among  educators. 


Smith  College  119 

I  realize  that  I  must  at  times  have  been  rather 
a  trying  proposition  to  President  Seelye  for  I  was 
placed  in  an  entirely  new  world,  and  having  been 
almost  wholly  educated  by  my  father,  by  Dart 
mouth  professors,  and  by  students  of  the  highest 
scholarship,  I  never  knew  the  mental  friction  and 
the  averaging  up  and  down  of  those  accustomed 
to  large  classes.  I  gained  far  more  there  than  I 
gave,  for  I  learned  my  limitations,  or  some  of  them, 
and  to  try  to  stick  closely  to  my  own  work,  to  be 
less  impulsive,  and  not  offer  opinions  and  sugges 
tions,  unasked,  undesired,  and  in  that  early  stage 
of  the  college,  objectionable.  Still,  President 
Seelye  writes  to  me:  "I  remember  you  as  a  very 
stimulating  teacher  of  English  Literature,  and  I 
have  often  heard  your  pupils,  here  and  afterwards, 
express  great  interest  in  your  instruction." 

The  only  "illuminating"  incident  in  my  three 
years  at  Smith  College  was  owing  to  my  wish  to 
honour  the  graduating  reception  of  the  Senior  class. 
I  pinned  my  new  curtains  carefully  away,  put 
some  candles  in  the  windows,  leaving  two  young 
ladies  of  the  second  year  to  see  that  all  was  safe. 
The  house  was  the  oldest  but  one  in  the  town;  it 
harboured  two  aged  paralytics  whom  it  would  be 
difficult,  if  not  dangerous,  to  remove.  Six  stu 
dents  had  their  home  there.  As  my  fire-guards 


120         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

heard  me  returning  with  my  sister  and  some  gentle 
men  of  the  town,  they  left  the  room,  the  door 
slammed,  a  breeze  blew  the  light  from  the  candles 
to  the  curtains,  and  in  an  instant  the  curtains  were 
ablaze. 

And  jiow  the  unbelievable  sequel.  The  room 
seemed  all  on  fire  in  five  minutes.  Next,  the  over 
head  beam  was  blazing.  I  can  tell  you  that  the 
fire  was  extinguished  by  those  gentlemen,  and  no 
one  ever  knew  we  had  been  so  near  a  conflagration 
until  three  years  later  when  the  kind  lady  of  the 
house  wrote  to  me:  "Dear  Friend,  did  you  ever 
have  a  fire  in  your  room?  In  making  it  over  I 
found  some  wood  badly  scorched."  I  have  the 
most  reliable  witnesses,  or  you  would  never  have 
believed  it.  In  the  morning  my  hostess  said  to  the 
girls  assembled  at  breakfast:  "Miss  Sanborn  is 
always  rather  noisy  when  she  has  guests,  but  I 
never  did  hear  such  a  hullabaloo  as  she  made  last 
evening." 

It  is  certain  that  President  Seelye  deserves  all  the 
appreciation  and  affectionate  regard  he  received. 
He  has  won  his  laurels  and  he  needs  the  rest  which 
only  resignation  could  bring.  The  college  is 
equally  fortunate  in  securing  as  his  successor, 
Marion  LeRoy  Burton,  who  in  the  coming  years 
may  lead  the  way  through  broader  paths,  to  greater 


Sophia  Smith  121 

heights,  always  keeping  President  Seelye's  ideal 
of  the  truly  womanly  type,  in  a  distinctively 
woman's  college. 

As  the  Rev.  Dr.  John  M.  Greene  writes  me  (the 
clergyman  who  suggested  to  Sophia  Smith  that 
she  give  her  money  to  found  a  college  for  women, 
and  who  at  eighty-five  years  has  a  perfectly  un 
clouded  mind) :  "I  want  to  say  that  my  ambition 
for  Smith  College  is  that  it  shall  be  a  real  women's 
college.  Too  many  of  our  women's  colleges  are 
only  men's  colleges  for  women." 

I  desire  now  to  add  my  tribute  to  that  noble 
woman,  Sophia  Smith  of  Hatfield,  Massachusetts. 

On  April  18,  1796,  the  town  of  Hatfield,  in  town 
meeting  assembled,  "voiced  to  set  up  two  schools, 
for  the  schooling  of  girls  four  months  in  the  year. " 
The  people  of  that  beautiful  town  seemed  to  have 
heard  the  voice  of  their  coming  prophetess,  com 
missioned  to  speak  a  word  for  woman's  education, 
which  the  world  has  shown  itself  ready  to  hear. 

In  matters  of  heredity,  Sophia  Smith  was  for 
tunate.  Her  paternal  grandmother,  Mary  Morton, 
was  an  extraordinary  woman.  After  the  death  of 
her  husband,  she  became  the  legal  guardian  of  her 
six  sons,  all  young,  cared  for  a  large  farm,  and 
trained  her  boys  to  be  useful  and  respected  in  the 
community. 


122         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

Sophia  Smith  was  born  in  Hatfield,  August  27, 
1796;  just  six  months  before  Mary  Lyon  was  born 
in  Ashfield,  Massachusetts,  about  seventeen  miles 
distant.  Sophia  remembered  her  grandmother 
and  said:  "I  looked  up  to  my  grandmother  with 
great  love  and  reverence.  She,  more  than  once, 
put  her  hands  on  my  head  and  said,  'I  want  you 
should  grow  up,  and  be  a  good  woman,  and  try 
to  make  the  world  better. ' '  And  her  mother  was 
equally  religious,  efficient,  kind  to  the  poor,  sym 
pathetic  but  not  impulsive.  Sophia  lived  in  a 
country  farmhouse  near  the  Connecticut  River  for 
sixty-eight  years.  She  was  sadly  hampered  phys 
ically.  One  of  the  historians  of  Hatfield  writes  me : 

Her  infirmity  of  deafness  was  troublesome  to  some 
extent  when  she  was  young,  making  her  shy  and  retir 
ing.  At  forty  she  was  absolutely  incapable  of  hear 
ing  conversation.  She  also  was  lame  in  one  foot  and 
had  a  withered  hand.  In  spite  of  this,  I  think  she  was 
an  active  and  spirited  girl,  about  like  other  girls. 
She  was  very  fond  of  social  intercourse,  especially  later 
in  life  when  my  father  knew  her,  but  this  intercourse 
was  confined  to  a  small  circle.  Doctor  Greene  speaks 
of  her  timidity  also.  I  know  of  no  traditions  about  her 
girlhood.  As  an  example  of  the  thrift  of  the  Smiths, 
or  perhaps  I  should  say,  their  exactness  in  all  business 
dealings,  my  father  says  that  Austin  Smith  never 
asked  his  sisters  to  sew  a  button  or  do  repairs  on  his 
clothing  without  paying  them  a  small  sum  for  it,  and 


SOPHIA    SMITH 


Sophia  Smith  123 

he  always  received  six  cents  for  doing  chores  or  run 
ning  errands.  No  doubt  this  was  a  practice  main 
tained  from  early  youth,  for  when  Sophia  Smith  was 
born,  in  1796,  the  family  was  in  very  moderate  cir 
cumstances.  The  whole  community  was  poor  for 
some  time'  after  the  Revolution,  and  everyone  saved 
pennies. 

As  to  her  education,  she  used  to  sit  on  the  door 
steps  of  the  schoolhouse  and  hear  the  privileged 
boys  recite  their  lessons.  She  also  had  four  or 
five  months  of  instruction  in  the  schoolhouse,  and 
was  a  student  in  Hopkins  Academy  for  a  short  time 
and,  when  fourteen  years  old,  attended  school  at 
Hartford,  Connecticut,  for  a  term  of  twelve  weeks. 

Then  a  long,  uneventful,  almost  shut-in  life, 
and  in  1861  her  brother  Austin  left  her  an  estate  of 
about  four  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars. 

Hon.  George  W.  Hubbard  of  Hatfield  was  her 
financial  adviser.  He  advised  her  to  found  an 
academy  for  Hatfield,  which  she  did;  and  after 
Doctor  Greene  had  caused  her  to  decide  on  a 
college  for  women,  Mr.  Hubbard  insisted  on  having 
it  placed  at  Northampton,  Massachusetts,  in 
stead  of  Hatfield,  Massachusetts.  With  her  usual 
modesty,  she  objected  to  giving  her  full  name 
to  the  college,  as  it  would  look  as  if  she  were 
seeking  fame  for  herself.  She  gave  thirty 
thousand  dollars  to  endow  a  professorship  in 


124         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

the  Andover  Theological  Seminary  at  Andover, 
Massachusetts. 

She  grew  old  gracefully,  never  soured  by  her 
infirmities,  always  denying  herself  to  help  others 
and  make  the  world  better  for  her  living  in  it. 

Her  name  must  stand  side  by  side  with  the  men 
who  founded  Vassar,  Wellesley,  and  Barnard,  and 
that  of  Mary  Lyon  to  whom  women  owe  the  college 
of  Mt.  Holyoke. 

As  Walt  Whitman  wrote: 

I  am  the  poet  of  the  woman  the  same  as  the  man, 
And  I  say  it  is  as  great  to  be  a  woman  as  to  be  a  man, 
And  I  say  there  is  nothing  greater  than  the  mother  of 
men. 

She  was  a  martyr  physically,  and  mentally  a 
heroine.  Let  us  never  fail  to  honour  the  woman 
who  founded  Smith  College. 

Extracts  from  a  letter  replying  to  my  question : 
"Is  there  a  full-length  portrait  of  Sophia  Smith, 
now  to  be  seen  anywhere  in  the  principal  building 
at  Smith  College,  Northampton?" 

How  I  wish  that  some  generous  patron  of  Smith 
College  might  bestow  upon  it  two  thousand  dollars 
for  a  full-length  portrait  of  Sophia  Smith  to  be  placed 
in  the  large  reading  room,  at  the  end  of  which  is  a 
full-length  portrait  of  President  Seelye.  The  presence 


Sophia  Smith  125 

of  such  a  commanding  figure  seen  by  hundreds  of  girls 
every  day  would  be  a  subtle  and  lasting  influence. 

I  like  to  nibble  at  a  stuffed  date,  but  do  not 
enjoy  having  my  memory  stuffed  with  dates, 
though  I  am  proud  rather  than  sensitive  in  regard 
to  my  age. 

Lady  Morgan  was  unwilling  her  age  should  be 
known,  and  pleads : 

What  has  a  woman  to  do  with  dates — cold,  false, 
erroneous,  chronological  dates — new  style,  old  style, 
precession  of  the  equinoxes,  ill-timed  calculation  of 
comets  long  since  due  at  their  station  and  never  come? 
Her  poetical  idiosyncrasy,  calculated  by  epochs,  would 
make  the  most  natural  points  of  reference  in  woman's 
autobiography.  Plutarch  sets  the  example  of  drop 
ping  dates  in  favour  of  incidents;  and  an  authority 
more  appropriate,  Madame  de  Genlis,  who  began  her 
own  memoires  at  eighty,  swept  through  nearly  an  age 
of  incident  and  revolution  without  any  reference  to 
vulgar  eras  signifying  nothing  (the  times  themselves 
out  of  joint),  testifying  to  the  pleasant  incidents  she 
recounts  and  the  changes  she  witnessed.  I  mean  to 
have  none  of  them! 

I  hesitate  to  allude  to  my  next  experience  after 
leaving  Smith  College,  for  it  was  so  delightful  that 
I  am  afraid  I  shall  scarcely  be  believed,  and  am 
also  afraid  that  my  readers  will  consider  me  a 
"swell  head"  and  my  story  only  fit  for  a  "Vanity 


126         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

Box."  Yet  I  would  not  leave  out  one  bit  of  the 
Western  lecture  trip.  If  it  were  possible  to  tell  of 
the  great  kindness  shown  me  at  every  step  of  the 
way  without  any  mention  of  myself,  I  would 
gladly  prefer  to  do  that. 

After  leaving  Smith  College,  I  was  enjoying 
commencement  festivities  in  my  own  home — 
when  another  surprising  event!  Mr.  George  W. 
Bartholomew,  a  graduate  of  Dartmouth,  who  was 
born  and  brought  up  in  a  neighbouring  Vermont 
town,  told  me  when  he  called  that  he  had  established 
a  large  and  successful  school  for  young  ladies  in 
Cincinnati,  Ohio,  taking  a  few  young  ladies  to  live 
in  his  pleasant  home.  He  urged  me  to  go  to  his 
school  for  three  months  to  teach  literature,  also 
giving  lectures  to  ladies  of  the  city  in  his  large 
recitation  hall.  And  he  felt  sure  he  could  secure 
me  many  invitations  to  lecture  in  other  cities. 

Remembering  my  former  Western  experience 
with  measles  and  whooping-cough,  I  realized  that 
mumps  and  chicken-pox  were  still  likely  to  attack 
me,  but  the  invitation  was  too  tempting,  and  it 
was  gladly  accepted,  and  I  went  to  Cincinnati  in 
the  fall  of  1884. 

Mrs.  Bartholomew  I  found  a  charming  woman 
and  a  most  cordial  friend.  Every  day  of  three 
months  spent  in  Cincinnati  was  full  of  happiness. 


A  Successful  Lecture  Tour       127 

Mrs.  Broadwell,  a  decided  leader  in  the  best  social 
matters,  as  well  as  in  all  public  spirited  enterprises, 
I  had  known  years  before  in  Hanover,  N.  H.  Her 
brother,  General  William  Haines  Lytle,  had  been 
slain  at  Chickamauga  during  the  Civil  War,  just  in 
the  full  strength  and  glory  of  manhood.  He  wrote 
that  striking  poem,  beginning:  "I  am  dying, 
Egypt,  dying."  Here  are  two  verses  of  his  one 
poem: 

As  for  thee,  star-eyed  Egyptian! 

Glorious  sorceress  of  the  Nile, 
Light  the  path  to  Stygian  horrors 

With  the  splendors  of  thy  smile. 
Give  the  Cassar  crowns  and  arches, 

Let  his  brow  the  laurel  twine; 
I  can  scorn  the  Senate's  triumphs, 

Triumphing  in  love  like  thine. 

I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying; 

Hark!  the  insulting  foeman's  cry, 
They  are  coming!  quick,  my  falchion! 

Let  me  front  them  ere  I  die. 
Ah !  no  more  amid  the  battle 

Shall  my  heart  exulting  swell — 
Isis  and  Osiris  guard  thee! 

Cleopatra,  Rome,  farewell! 

He  was  engaged  to  Miss  Sarah  Doremus,  a  sister 
of  Professor  Doremus  of  New  York.  After  the 
terrible  shock  of  his  sudden  death  she  never  mar- 


128         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

ried,  but  devoted  her  life  to  carrying  out  her 
sainted  mother's  missionary  projects,  once  taking 
a  trip  alone  around  the  world  to  visit  the  mission 
ary  stations  started  by  her  mother. 

As  soon  as  I  had  arrived  at  Mr.  Bartholomew's, 
Mrs.  Broadwell  gave  me  a  dinner.  Six  unmarried 
ladies  and  seven  well-known  bachelors  were  the 
guests,  as  she  wished  to  give  me  just  what  I  needed, 
an  endorsement  among  her  own  friends.  The 
result  was  instant  and  potent. 

Everyone  at  that  dinner  did  something  after 
wards  to  entertain  me.  I  was  often  invited  to  the 
opera,  always  had  a  box  (long-stemmed  roses  for 
all  the  ladies),  also  to  dinner  and  lunches.  If  any 
one  in  the  city  had  anything  in  the  way  of  a  rare 
collection,  from  old  engravings  to  rare  old  books, 
an  evening  was  devoted  to  showing  the  collection 
to  me  with  other  friends.  One  lady,  Miss  Mary 
Louise  McLaughlin,  invited  me  to  lunch  with  her 
alone.  Her  brother,  a  bachelor  lawyer,  had  at 
that  time  the  finest  private  library  in  the  city. 
She  was  certainly  the  most  versatile  in  her  accom 
plishments  of  anyone  I  have  ever  known.  She 
had  painted  the  best  full-length  portrait  of  Judge 
Longworth,  father  of  the  husband  of  Alice  Roose 
velt.  She  was  a  china  painter  to  beat  the  Chinese, 
and  author  of  four  books  on  the  subject.  She  was 


A  Western  Lecture  Tour         129 

an  artist  in  photography;  had  a  portfolio  of  off 
hand  sketches  of  street  gamins,  newsboys,  etc.,  full 
of  life  and  expression.  She  brought  the  art  of 
under  glaze  in  china-firing  to  this  country  and  had 
discovered  a  method  of  etching  metal  into  fine 
woods  for  bedroom  furniture.  She  was  an  expert 
at  wood-carving,  taking  lessons  from  Ben  Pitman. 
Was  fond  of  housekeeping  and  made  a  success  of 
it  in  every  way.  Anything  else  ?  Yes,  she  showed 
me  pieces  of  her  exquisite  embroidery  and  had 
made  an  artistic  and  wholly  sane  "crazy-quilt" 
so  much  in  vogue  at  that  time.  Her  own  beautiful 
china  was  all  painted  and  finished  by  herself.  As 
I  left  her,  I  felt  about  two  feet  high,  with  a  pin 
head.  And  yet  she  was  free  from  the  slightest 
touch  of  conceit. 

Miss  Laura  MacDonald  (daughter  of  Alexander 
MacDonald,  the  business  man  who  took  great 
risks  with  Mr.  John  D.  Rockefeller  in  borrowing 
money  to  invest  largely  in  oil  fields)  was  my  pupil 
in  the  school,  and  through  her  I  became  acquainted 
with  her  lovely  mother,  who  invited  me  to  her 
home  at  Clifton,  just  out  of  Cincinnati,  to  lecture 
to  a  select  audience  of  her  special  friends. 

My  lectures  at  Mr.  Bartholomew's  school  were 
very  well  attended.  Lists  of  my  subjects  were  sent 
about  widely,  and  when  the  day  came  for  my  en- 

9 


130         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

thusiastic  praise  of  Christopher  North  (John  Wil 
son),  a  sweet-faced  old  lady  came  up  to  the  desk 
and  placed  before  me  a  large  bunch  of  veritable 
Scotch  heather  for  which  she  had  sent  to  Scotland. 

In  Cleveland,  where  I  gave  a  series  of  talks> 
President  Cutler,  of  Adelbert  University,  rose  at 
the  close  of  the  last  lecture  and,  looking  genially 
towards  me,  made  this  acknowledgment:  "I  am 
free  to  confess  that  I  have  often  been  charmed  by 
a  woman,  and  occasionally  instructed,  but  never 
before  have  I  been  charmed  and  instructed  by 
the  same  woman." 

Cleveland  showed  even  then  the  spirit  of  the 
Cleveland  of  today,  which  is  putting  that  city  in 
the  very  first  rank  of  the  cities  not  only  of  the 
United  States  but  of  the  world  in  civic  improve 
ment  and  municipal  progress,  morally  and  physi 
cally.  Each  night  of  my  lectures  I  was  entertained 
at  a  different  house  while  there,  and  as  a  trifle  to 
show  their  being  in  advance  of  other  cities,  I 
noticed  that  the  ladies  wore  wigs  to  suit  their 
costumes.  That  only  became  the  fashion  here  last 
winter,  but  I  saw  no  ultra  colours  such  as  we  saw 
last  year,  green  and  pink  and  blue,  but  only  those 
that  suited  their  style  and  their  costume. 

At  Chicago  I  was  the  guest  of  Mrs.  H.  O.  Stone, 
who  gave  me  a  dinner  and  an  afternoon  reception, 


A  Western  Lecture  Tour         131 

where  I  met  many  members  of  various  clubs,  and 
the  youngest  grandmothers  I  had  ever  seen. 
At  a  lunch  given  for  me  by  Mrs.  Locke,  wife  of 
Rev.  Clinton  B.  Locke,  I  met  Mrs.  Potter  Pal 
mer,  Mrs.  Wayne  MacVeagh,  and  Mrs.  Williams, 
wife  of  General  Williams,  and  formerly  the  wife 
of  Stephen  Douglas.  Mrs.  Locke  was  the  best 
raconteur  of  any  woman  I  have  ever  heard.  Dart 
mouth  men  drove  me  to  all  the  show  places  of 
that  wonderful  city.  Lectured  in  Rev.  Dr.  Little's 
church  parlors.  He  was  not  only  a  New  Hamp 
shire  man,  but  born  in  Boscawen,  New  Hampshire, 
where  my  grandfather  lived,  and  where  my  mother 
lived  until  her  marriage. 

It  is  pleasant  to  record  that  I  was  carried  along 
on  my  lecture  tour,  sometimes  by  invitation  of  a 
Dartmouth  man,  again  by  college  girls  who  had 
graduated  at  Smith  College;  then  at  Peoria,  Illi 
nois  ;  welcomed  there  by  a  dear  friend  from  Brook 
lyn,  New  York,  wife  of  a  business  man  of  that  city. 
I  knew  of  Peoria  only  as  a  great  place  for  the  manu 
facture  of  whisky,  and  for  its  cast-iron  stoves, 
but  found  it  a  city,  magnificently  situated  on  a 
series  of  bold  bluffs.  And  when  I  reached  my 
friend's  house,  a  class  of  ladies,  who  had  been 
easily  chatting  in  German,  wanted  to  stay  and  ask 
me  a  few  questions.  These  showed  deep  thought, 


132         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

wide  reading,  and  finely  disciplined  minds.  Only 
one  reading  there  in  the  Congregational  Church, 
where  there  was  such  a  fearful  lack  of  ventilation 
that  I  turned  from  my  manuscript  and  quoted  a 
bit  from  the  "Apele  for  Are  to  the  Sextant  of  the 
Old  Brick  Meetinouse  by  A.  Gasper,"  which 
proved  effectual. 

I  give  this  impressive  exhortation  entire  as  it 
should  be  more  generally  known. 

A   APELE   FOR  ARE   TO   THE   SEXTANT 
BY  ARABELLA  WILSON 

0  Sextant  of  the  meetinouse  which  sweeps 
And  dusts,  or  is  supposed  to !  and  makes  fiers, 

And  lites  the  gas,  and  sumtimes  leaves  a  screw  loose, 

In  which  case  it  smells  orful — wus  than  lampile ; 

And  wrings  the  Bel  and  toles  it,  and  sweeps  paths; 

And  for  these  servaces  gits  $100  per  annum; 

Wich  them  that  thinks  deer  let  'em  try  it; 

Gittin  up  before  starlite  in  all  wethers,  and 

Kindlin  fiers  when  the  wether  is  as  cold 

As  zero,  and  like  as  not  green  wood  for  kindlins, 

(I  wouldn't  be  hierd  to  do  it  for  no  sum;) 

But  o  Sextant  there  are  one  kermodity 

Wuth  more  than  gold  which  don't  cost  nuthin ; 

Wuth  more  than  anything  except  the  Sole  of  man ! 

1  mean  pewer  Are,  Sextant,  I  mean  pewer  Are ! 
O  it  is  plenty  out  o  dores,  so  plenty  it  doant  no 
What  on  airth  to  do  with  itself,  but  flize  about 
Scatterin  leaves  and  bloin  off  men's  hats; 

In  short  its  jest  as  free  as  Are  out  dores; 


A  Apele  for  Are  to  the  Sextant    133 

But  0  Sextant!  in  our  church  its  scarce  as  piety, 

Scarce  as  bankbills  when  ajunts  beg  for  mishuns, 

Which  sum  say  is  purty  often,  taint  nuthin  to  me, 

What  I  give  aint  nuthing  to  nobody ;  but  0  Sextant ! 

You  shet  500  men  women  and  children 

Speshily  the  latter,  up  in  a  tite  place, 

Sum  has  bad  breths,  none  of  em  aint  too  sweet, 

Sum  is  f every,  sum  is  scroflus,  sum  has  bad  teeth 

And  sum  haint  none,  and  sum  aint  over  clean ; 

But  evry  one  of  em  brethes  in  and  out  and  in 

Say  50  times  a  minnet,  or  i  million  and  a  half  breths 

an  hour; 
Now  how  long  will  a  church  full  of  are  last  at  that 

rate? 
I  ask  you;  say  fifteen  minnets,  and  then  what's  to  be 

did? 

Why  then  they  must  brethe  it  all  over  agin, 
And  then  agin  and  so  on,  till  each  has  took  it  down 
At  least  ten  times  and  let  it  up  agin,  and  what's 

more, 

The  same  individible  doant  have  the  privilege 
Of  brethin  his  own  are  and  no  one  else, 
Each  one  must  take  wotever  comes  to  him. 
O  Sextant !  doant  you  know  our  lungs  is  belluses 
To  bio  the  fier  of  life  and  keep  it  from 
Going  out:  and  how  can  bellusses  bio  without  wind? 
And  aint  wind  are?     I  put  it  to  your  konshens, 
Are  is  the  same  to  us  as  milk  to  babies, 
Or  water  is  to  fish,  or  pendlums  to  clox, 
Or  roots  and  airbs  unto  an  Injun  doctor, 
Or  little  pills  unto  an  omepath. 
Or  Boze  to  girls.     Are  is  for  us  to  brethe. 
What  signifize  who  preaches  ef  I  can't  brethe? 
What's  Pol?     What's  Pollus  to  sinners  who  are  ded? 


134         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

Ded  for  want  of  breth !     Why  Sextant  when  we  dye 

Its  only  coz  we  cant  brethe  no  more — that's  all. 

And  now  O  Sextant !  let  me  beg  of  you 

To  let  a  little  are  into  our  cherch 

(Fewer  are  is  sertin  proper  for  the  pews) ; 

And  dew  it  week  days  and  on  Sundys  tew — 

It  aint  much  trobble — only  make  a  hoal, 

And  then  the  are  will  come  in  of  itself 

(It  loves  to  come  in  where  it  can  git  warm). 

And  O  how  it  will  rouze  the  people  up 

And  sperrit  up  the  preacher,  and  stop  garps 

And  yorns  and  fijits  as  effectool 

As  wind  on  the  dry  boans  the  Profit  tels 

Of. 

I  went  as  far  as  Omaha,  and  then  was  asked  if 
I  were  not  going  West.  The  reason  for  this  charm 
ing  reception  was  that  it  was  a  novelty  then  to  hear 
a  young  woman  talk  in  a  lively  way  on  striking 
themes  which  had  been  most  carefully  prepared, 
and  a  light  touch  added,  with  frequent  glints  of  hu 
mour.  Byron  declared  that  easy  writing  was  very 
hard  reading.  I  reversed  that  method,  always 
working  hard  over  each  lecture.  For  instance,  I 
spent  two  months  in  preparing  "Bachelor  Authors, ' ' 
cramming  and  condensing,  and  passing  quickly 
over  dangerous  ground.  With  my  vocal  training  I 
could  easily  be  heard  by  an  audience  of  five  hundred. 

A  friend  was  eager  to  go  to  Alaska  by  Seattle; 
then,  after  our  return,  visit  Yellowstone  Park  and 


A  Trip  to  Alaska  135 

San  Francisco.  She  urged  me  so  eloquently  to 
accompany  her,  that  I  left  my  home  in  Met- 
calf,  Massachusetts,  taking  great  risks  in  many 
ways,  but  wonderful  to  relate,  nothing  disastrous 
occurred. 

We  scurried  by  fastest  trains  across  the  country 
to  Seattle,  just  in  time  to  take  the  Steamer  Topeka 
from  Seattle  on  August  8,  1899,  the  last  boat  of 
the  season,  and  the  last  chance  tourists  ever  had 
to  see  the  Muir  Glacier  in  its  marvellous  glory, 
as  it  was  broken  badly  before  the  next  summer. 

My  friend  advised  me  kindly  to  ask  no  questions 
of  the  captain,  as  she  knew  well  what  a  bore  that 
was.  I  promised  to  be  exceedingly  careful.  So, 
next  morning,  when  that  tall  and  handsome  Cap 
tain  Thompson  came  around  the  deck,  with  a 
smiling  "Good  morning,"  and  bowing  right  and 
left,  I  was  deeply  absorbed  in  a  book;  the  next 
time  I  was  looking  at  a  view;  another  time  I 
played  I  was  fast  asleep.  He  never  spoke  to  me, 
only  stopped  an  instant  before  me  and  walked  on. 
At  last,  a  bow-legged  pilot  came  directly  from 
the  captain's  office  to  my  open  window,  bringing 
to  Miss  Sanborn  a  bowl  of  extra  large  and  luscious 
strawberries  from  Douglas  Island,  quite  famous 
on  account  of  the  size  and  sweetness  of  this  berry. 
With  this  gift  came  a  note  running  thus : 


136        Memories  and  Anecdotes 

DEAR  Miss  SANBORN: 

I  am  a  little  puzzled  by  your  frigid  manner.  Have 
you  any  personal  prejudice  against  me?  Walter  Ray 
mond  wrote  me  before  he  sailed,  to  look  you  up,  and 
do  what  I  could  for  you,  as  you  were  quite  a  favourite 
on  the  Eastern  coast,  and  any  kindness  shown  to  you 
would  be  considered  a  personal  favour  to  him,  and 
that  he  only  wished  he  could  take  the  trip  with  us. 

I  was  amazed  and  mortified.  I  had  obeyed  my 
directions  too  literally,  and  must  and  did  explain 
and  apologize.  After  that,  such  pleasant  atten 
tions  from  him!  Invited  to  call  at  his  office  with 
my  friends,  to  meet  desirable  passengers,  some 
thing  nice  provided  for  refreshment,  and  these 
gentlemen  were  always  ready  for  cards  or  con 
versation.  But  the  great  occasion  was  when  I 
had  no  idea  of  such  an  honour,  that  the  captain 
said: 

"  We  are  soon  to  pass  through  the  Wrangel 
Narrows,  a  dangerous  place,  and  the  steering 
through  zigzag  lines  must  be  most  careful.  I  am 
going  to  smuggle  you  on  to  the  bridge  to  see  me 
steer  and  hear  me  give  my  orders  that  will  be  re 
peated  below.  But  as  it  is  against  the  rule  to  take 
a  woman  up  there  at  such  a  time,  promise  me  to 
keep  perfectly  silent.  If  you  make  one  remark 
you  lose  your  life." 

I  agreed  and  kept  my  mouth  shut  without  a 


A  Trip  to  Alaska  137 

muzzle.     That  "memory"  is  as  clear  today  as  if 
it  had  happened  yesterday. 

One  day  while  reading  in  my  fine  stateroom,  a 
lady  came  to  the  open  door  and  asked  me  if  I 
would  go  out  with  her  on  the  deck  that  pleasant 
afternoon  and  meet  some  friends  of  hers.  I 
thanked  her,  but  refused  as  I  was  reading  one  of 
Hon.  Justin  McCarthy's  books,  and  as  I  had  the 
honour  of  meeting  him  and  his  most  interesting 
wife  in  New  York  City  at  the  home  of  Mrs.  Henry 
M.  Field,  I  was  much  engrossed  in  what  he  wrote. 
Again,  another  person  came  and  entreated  me  to 
go  to  the  deck ;  not  suspecting  any  plot  to  test  me, 
I  went  with  her,  and  found  a  crowd  gathered  there, 
and  a  good-looking  young  man  seemed  to  be 
haranguing  them.  He  stopped  as  we  came  along 
and  after  being  introduced  went  on  with :  "As  I 
was  saying,  Miss  Sanborn,  I  regard  women  as 
greatly  our  inferiors;  in  fact,  essentially  unemo 
tional, — really  bovine.  Do  you  really  not  agree  to 
that?"  I  almost  choked  with  surprise  and  wrath, 
but  managed  to  retort:  "I  am  sorry  to  suppose 
your  mother  was  a  cow,  but  she  must  have  been 
to  raise  a  calf  like  you."  And  I  walked  away  to 
the  tune  of  great  applause.  It  seems  someone  had 
said  that  I  was  never  at  a  loss  when  a  repartee  was 
needed,  and  it  was  proposed  to  give  me  an  oppor- 


138         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

tunity.  Next  surprise:  a  call  as  we  were  nearing 
Seattle  from  a  large  and  noticeable  lady  who  in 
troduced  herself  saying: 

"  I  am  the  president  of  a  club  which  I  started 
myself,  and  feel  bound  to  help  on.  I  have  fol 
lowed  you  about  a  good  deal,  and  shall  be  much 
obliged  if  you  will  jot  down  for  me  to  read  to  this 
club  everything  you  have  said  since  you  came  on 
board.  I  know  they  will  enjoy  it."  I  was  sorry 
my  memory  failed  me  entirely  on  that  occasion. 
Still  it  was  a  great  compliment! 

But  the  Muir  Glacier!  We  had  to  keep  three 
and  a  half  miles  away,  lest  the  steamer  be  in 
jured  by  the  small  icebergs  which  broke  off 
the  immense  mass  into  the  water  with  a  thund 
erous  roar.  A  live  glacier  advances  a  certain 
distance  each  day  and  retreats  a  little.  Those 
who  visited  the  glacier  brought  back  delicate 
little  blue  harebells  they  found  growing  in  the 
clefts  of  ice.  No  description  of  my  impressions  ? 
Certainly  not!  Too  much  of  that  has  been  done 
already. 

We  saw  curious  sights  along  the  way,  such  as  the 
salmon  leaping  into  a  fenced-in  pool  to  deposit 
their  spawn;  there  they  could  be  easily  speared, 
dried,  and  pitched  into  wagons  as  we  pitch  hay  in 
New  England.  I  saw  the  Indians  stretching  the 


A  Trip  to  Alaska  139 

salmon  on  boards  put  up  in  the  sun,  their  color  in 
the  sun  a  brilliant  pinkish  red. 

I  saw  bears  fishing  at  the  edge  of  water,  really 
catching  fish  in  their  clumsy  paws.  Other  bears 
were  picking  strawberries  for  their  cubs.  As  I 
watched  them  strolling  away,  I  thought  they  might 
be  looking  for  a  stray  cow  to  milk  to  add  flavour 
to  the  berries. 

We  stopped  at  Wrangel  to  look  at  the  totem 
poles,  many  of  which  have  since  been  stolen  as  the 
Indians  did  not  wish  to  sell  them;  our  usual  me 
thod  of  business  with  that  abused  race.  Totem 
poles  are  genealogical  records,  and  give  the  history 
of  the  family  before  whose  door  they  stand.  No 
one  would  quietly  take  the  registered  certificates 
of  Revolutionary  ancestors  searched  for  with  great 
care  from  the  Colonial  Dames  or  members  of  the 
New  England  Society,  and  coolly  destroy  them. 
I  agree  with  Charles  Lamb  who  said  he  didn't 
want  to  be  like  a  potato,  all  that  was  best  of  him 
under  ground. 

At  Sitka  the  brilliant  gardens  and  the  large 
school  for  Indian  girls  were  the  objects  of  interest. 
It  is  a  sad  fact  that  the  school  which  teaches  these 
girls  cleanly  habits,  the  practical  arts  of  sewing,  and 
cooking  simple  but  appetizing  dishes,  has  made  the 
girls  unwilling  to  return  to  their  dirty  homes  and 


140         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

the  filthy  habits  of  their  parents.  That  would  be 
impossible  to  them.  So  they  are  lured  to  visit  the 
dance  halls  in  Juneau,  where  they  find  admirers 
of  a  transient  sort,  but  seldom  secure  an  honest 
husband. 

We  called  at  Skagway,  and  the  lady  who  was 
known  by  us  told  us  there  was  much  stress  there 
placed  upon  the  most  formal  attention  to  rigid 
conventionalities,  calls  made  and  returned,  cards 
left  and  received  at  just  the  right  time,  more  than 
is  expected  in  Boston.  And  yet  that  town  was 
hardly  started,  and  dirt  and  disorder  and  chaos 
reigned  supreme. 

A  company  of  unlucky  miners  came  home  in  our 
steamer;  no  place  for  them  to  sleep  but  on  deck 
near  the  doors  of  our  stateroom,  and  they  ate  at 
one  of  the  tables  after  three  other  hungry  sets  had 
been  satisfied.  A  few  slept  on  the  tables.  All  the 
poultry  had  been  killed  and  eaten.  We  found  the 
Chinese  cooks  tried  to  make  tough  meat  attractive 
by  pink  and  yellow  sauces.  We  were  glad  to  leave 
the  steamer  to  try  the  ups  and  downs  of  Seattle. 


CHAPTER  V 

Frances  E.  Willard — Walt  Whitman — Lady  Henry  Somerset — 
Mrs.  Hannah  Whitehall  Smith— A  Teetotaler  for  Ten  Min 
utes — Olive  Thorne  Miller — Hearty  Praise  for  Mrs.  Lippin- 
cott  (Grace  Greenwood). 

I  WAS  looking  over  some  letters  from  Frances  E. 
Willard  last  week.  What  a  powerful,  blessed 
influence  was  hers ! 

Such  a  rare  combination  of  intense  earnestness, 
persistence,  and  devotion  to  a  "  cause "  with  a 
gentle,  forgiving,  compassionate  spirit,  and  all 
tempered  by  perfect  self-control. 

Visiting  in  Germantown,  Pennsylvania,  at  the 
hospitable  home  of  Mrs.  Hannah  Whitehall  Smith, 
the  Quaker  Bible  reader  and  lay  evangelist,  and 
writer  of  cheerful  counsel,  I  found  several  celebri 
ties  among  her  other  guests.  Miss  Willard  and 
Walt  Whitman  happened  to  be  present.  Whitman 
was  rude  and  aggressively  combative  in  his  attack 
on  the  advocate  of  temperance,  and  that  without 
the  slightest  provocation.  He  declared  that  all 
this  total  abstinence  was  absolute  rot  and  of  no 

141 


142         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

earthly  use,  and  that  he  hated  the  sight  of  these 
women  who  went  out  of  their  way  to  be  crusading 
temperance  fanatics. 

After  this  outburst  he  left  the  room.  Miss 
Willard  never  alluded  to  his  fiery  criticism,  didn't 
seem  to  know  she  had  been  hit,  but  chatted  on  as 
if  nothing  unpleasant  had  occurred. 

In  half  an  hour  he  returned ;  and  with  a  smiling 
face  made  a  manly  apology,  and  asked  to  be  for 
given  for  his  too  severe  remarks.  Miss  Willard 
met  him  more  than  half-way,  with  generous  cor 
diality,  and  they  became  good  friends.  And  when 
with  the  women  of  the  circle  again  she  said : ' '  Now 
wasn't  that  just  grand  in  that  dear  old  man?  I 
like  him  the  more  for  his  outspoken  honesty  and 
his  unwillingness  to  pain  me." 

How  they  laboured  with  "Walt"  to  induce  him 
to  leave  out  certain  of  his  poems  from  the  next 
edition !  The  wife  went  to  her  room  to  pray  that 
he  might  yield,  and  the  husband  argued.  But  no 
use,  it  was  all  "art"  every  word,  and  not  one  line 
would  he  ever  give  up.  The  old  poet  was  supposed 
to  be  poor  and  needy,  and  an  enthusiastic  daughter 
of  Mrs.  Smith  had  secured  quite  a  sum  at  col 
lege  to  provide  bed  linen  and  blankets  for  him 
in  the  simple  cottage  at  Camden.  Whitman  was 
a  great,  breezy,  florid-faced  out-of-doors  genius, 


Frances  E.  Willard  143 

but  we  all  wished  he  had  been  a  little  less  au 
naturel. 

To  speak  once  more  of  Miss  Willard,  no  one 
enjoyed  a  really  laughable  thing  more  than  she 
did,  but  I  never  felt  like  being  a  foolish  trifler  in 
her  presence.  Her  outlook  was  so  far  above  mine 
that  I  always  felt  not  rebuked,  but  ashamed  of 
my  superficial  lightness  of  manner. 

Just  one  illustration  of  the  unconscious  influence 
of  her  noble  soul  and  her  convincing  words : 

Many  years  ago,  at  an  anniversary  of  Sorosis 
in  New  York,  I  had  half  promised  the  persuasive 
president  (Jennie  June)  that  I  would  say  some 
thing.  The  possibility  of  being  called  up  for  an 
after-dinner  speech !  Something  brief,  terse,  spark 
ling,  complimentary,  satisfactory,  and  something 
to  raise  a  laugh !  O,  you  know  this  agony !  I  had 
nothing  in  particular  to  say ;  I  wanted  to  be  quiet 
and  enjoy  the  treat.  But  between  each  course 
I  tried  hard,  while  apparently  listening  to  my 
neighbour,  to  think  up  something  "neat  and 
appropriate." 

This  coming  martyrdom,  which  increases  in  hor 
ror  as  you  advance  with  deceptive  gayety,  from 
roast  to  game,  and  game  to  ices,  is  really  one  of 
the  severest  trials  of  club  life. 

Miss  Willard  was  one  of  the  honoured  guests  of 


144         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

the  day,  and  was  called  on  first.  When  she  arose 
and  began  to  speak,  I  felt  instantly  that  she  had 
something  to  say;  something  that  she  felt  was 
important  we  should  hear,  and  how  beautifully, 
how  simply  it  was  said!  Not  a  thought  of  self, 
not  one  instant's  hesitation  for  a  thought  or  a  word, 
yet  it  was  evidently  unwritten  and  not  committed 
to  memory.  Every  eye  was  drawn  to  her  earnest 
face;  every  heart  was  touched.  As  she  sat  down, 
I  rose  and  left  the  room  rather  rapidly ;  and  when 
my  name  was  called  and  my  fizzling  fireworks 
expected,  I  was  walking  up  Fifth  Avenue,  thinking 
about  her  and  her  life-work.  The  whole  experience 
was  a  revelation.  I  had  never  met  such  a  woman. 
No  affectation,  nor  pedantry,  nor  mannishness  to 
mar  the  effect.  It  was  in  part  the  humiliating 
contrast  between  her  soul-stirring  words  and  my 
silly  little  society  effort  that  drove  me  from  the 
place,  but  all  petty  egotism  vanished  before  the 
wish  to  be  of  real  use  to  others  with  which  her 
earnestness  had  inspired  me. 

One  lady  told  me  that  after  hearing  her  she  felt 
she  could  go  out  and  be  a  praying  band  all  by  her 
self.  Indeed  she  was 

A  noble  woman,  true  and  pure, 
Who  in  the  little  while  she  stayed, 
Wrought  works  that  shall  endure. 


Frances  E.  Willard  145 

She  was  asked  who  she  would  prefer  to  write  a 
sketch  of  her  and  her  work  and  she  honoured  me 
by  giving  me  that  great  pleasure.  The  book  ap 
peared  in  1883,  entitled  Our  Famous  Women. 

Once  when  Miss  Willard  was  in  Boston  with 
Lady  Henry  Somerset  and  Anna  Gordon,  I  was 
delighted  by  a  letter  from  Frances  saying  that 
Lady  Henry  wanted  to  know  me  and  could  I 
lunch  with  them  soon  at  the  Abbott sford.  I  ac 
cepted  joyously,  but  next  morning's  mail  brought 
this  depressing  decision:  "Dear  Kate,  we  have 
decided  that  there  will  be  more  meat  in  going  to 
you.  When  can  we  come? "  I  was  hardly  settled 
in  my  house  of  the  Abandoned  Farm.  There  was 
no  furnace  in  the  house,  only  two  servants  with  me. 
And  it  would  be  impossible  to  entertain  those 
friends  properly  in  the  dead  of  the  winter,  and  I 
nearly  ready  to  leave  for  a  milder  clime.  So  I  told 
them  the  stern  facts  and  lost  a  rare  treat. 

This  is  the  end  of  Miss  Willard 's  good-bye  letter  to 
me  when  returning  to  England  with  Lady  Henry: 

Hoping  to  see  you  on  my  return,  and  hereby  solicit 
ing  an  exchange  of  photographs  between  you  and 
Lady  Henry  and  me, 

I  am  ever  and  as  ever 

Yours, 
FRANCES  WILLARD. 

10 


146         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

While  at  Mrs.  Smith's  home  in  Germantown, 
both  she  and  Miss  Willard  urged  me  to  sign  a 
Temperance  Pledge  that  lay  on  the  table  in  the 
library.  I  would  have  accepted  almost  anything 
either  of  those  good  friends  presented  for  my 
attention.  So  after  thinking  seriously  I  signed. 
But  after  going  to  my  room  I  felt  sure  that  I 
could  never  keep  that  pledge.  So  I  ran  downstairs 
and  told  them  to  erase  my  name,  which  was  done 
without  one  word  of  astonishment  or  reproof  from 
either. 

I  wish  I  knew  how  to  describe  Hannah  Whitehall 
Smith  as  she  was  in  her  everyday  life.  Such  simple 
nobility,  such  tenderness  for  the  tempted,  such  a 
love  for  sinners,  such  a  longing  to  show  them  the 
better  way.  She  said  to  me :  '  *  If  my  friends  must 
go  to  what  is  called  Hell  I  want  to  go  with  them. " 
When  a  minister,  who  was  her  guest,  was  greatly 
roused  at  her  lack  of  belief  in  eternal  punishment 
and  her  infinite  patience  with  those  who  lacked 
moral  strength,  he  said:  "There  are  surely  some 
sins  your  daughters  could  commit  which  would 
make  you  drive  them  from  your  home. "  "  There 
are  no  sins  my  daughters  could  commit  which 
would  not  make  me  hug  them  more  closely  in  my 
arms  and  strive  to  bring  them  back."  Wherewith 
he  exclaimed  bitterly:  "Madam,  you  are  a  mere 


Olive  Thorne  Miller  147 

mucilaginous  mess. "  She  made  no  reply,  but  her 
husband  soon  sent  him  word  that  a  carriage  would 
be  at  the  door  in  one  hour  to  convey  him  to  the 
train  for  New  York. 

*  *  If  you  do  not  love  the  birds,  you  cannot  under 
stand  them." 

I  remember  enjoying  an  article  on  the  catbird 
several  years  ago  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  and 
wanting  to  know  more  of  the  woman  who  had 
observed  a  pair  of  birds  so  closely,  and  could  make 
so  charming  a  story  of  their  love-affairs  and  house 
keeping  experiences,  and  thinking  that  most 
persons  knew  next  to  nothing  about  birds,  their 
habits,  and  homes. 

Mrs.  Olive  Thorne  Miller,  who  wrote  that  bird 
talk,  is  now  a  dear  friend  of  mine,  and  while  spend 
ing  a  day  with  me  lately  was  kind  enough  to  answer 
all  my  questions  as  to  how  and  where  and  when  she 
began  to  study  birds.  She  is  not  a  young  woman, 
is  the  proud  grandmother  of  seven  children;  but 
her  bright  face  crowned  with  handsome  white  hair, 
has  that  young,  alert,  happy  look  that  comes  with 
having  a  satisfying  hobby  that  goes  at  a  lively  pace. 
She  said :  "  I  never  thought  of  being  anything  but  a 
housekeeping  mother  until  I  was  about  thirty-one 
and  my  husband  lost  all  his  property,  and  want,  or 


148         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

a  thousand  wants,  stared  us  in  the  face.  Making 
the  children's  clothes  and  my  own,  and  cooking 
as  well,  broke  down  my  health,  so  I  bethought  me 
of  writing,  which  I  always  had  a  longing  to  do. " 

"What  did  you  begin  with?" 

"Well,  pretty  poor  stuff  that  no  one  was  anxious 
to  pay  for ;  mostly  in  essay  form  expressing  my  own 
opinions  on  various  important  subjects.  But  it 
didn't  go.  I  was  complaining  of  my  bad  luck  to 
a  plain-spoken  woman  in  charge  of  a  circulating 
library,  and  she  gave  me  grand  advice.  'No  one 
cares  a  snap  for  your  opinions.  You  must  tell 
something  that  folks  want  to  know. ' ' 

"Did  you  then  take  up  birds?" 

"O  no;  I  went  into  the  library,  read  some  of 
Harriet  Martineau's  talks  on  pottery,  and  told 
children  how  a  teacup  was  made  and  got  one  dollar 
for  that.  But  those  pot-boilers  were  not  inspiring, 
and  about  ten  years  later  a  second  woman  adviser 
turned  my  course  into  another  channel." 

"How  did  that  come  about?" 

' '  I  had  a  bird-loving  friend  from  the  West  visit 
ing  me,  and  took  her  to  Prospect  Park,  Brooklyn, 
to  see  our  birds.  She  pointed  out  several,  and  so 
interested  me  in  their  lives  that  from  that  day  I 
began  to  study  them,  especially  the  wood-thrush 
and  catbird.  After  I  had  studied  them  for  two 


Olive  Thorne  Miller  149 

years,  I  wrote  what  I  had  seen.  From  that  time 
my  course  has  seemed  marked  out  for  me,  and  my 
whole  time  has  been  given  to  this  one  theme.  I 
think  every  woman  over  forty-five  ought  to  take 
up  a  fad ;  they  would  be  much  happier  and  better 
off." 

"You  told  me  once  that  three  women  had  each 
in  turn  changed  your  career.  Do  give  me  the 
third." 

"Well,  after  my  articles  and  books  had  met  with 
favour  (I  have  brought  out  fifteen  books),  invita 
tions  to  lecture  or  talk  about  birds  kept  pour 
ing  in.  I  was  talking  this  over  with  Marion 
Harland  (Mrs.  Terhune),  declaring  I  could  never 
appear  in  public,  that  I  should  be  frightened  out 
of  my  wits,  and  that  I  must  decline.  My  voice 
would  all  go,  and  my  heart  jump  into  my  mouth. 
She  exclaimed,  'For  a  sensible  woman,  you  are  the 
biggest  fool  I  ever  met ! '  This  set  me  thinking,  and 
with  many  misgivings  I  accepted  an  invitation." 

"And  did  you  nearly  expire  with  stage  fright?" 

"Never  was  scared  one  bit,  my  dear.  All  bird- 
lovers  are  the  nicest  kind  of  folks,  either  as  an  audi 
ence  or  in  their  own  homes.  I  have  made  most 
delightful  acquaintances  lecturing  in  fifteen  differ 
ent  States ;  am  now  booked  for  a  tour  in  the  West, 
lecturing  every  day  and  taking  classes  into  the 


150         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

fields  and  woods  for  actual  observation.  Nesting- 
time  is  the  best  time  to  study  the  birds,  to  know 
them  thoroughly." 

"Do  you  speak  about  dead  birds  on  hats?" 

"Yes,  when  I  am  asked  to  do  so.  Did  you  ever 
hear  that  Celia  Thaxter,  finding  herself  in  a  car 
with  women  whose  head-gear  emulated  a  bird- 
museum,  was  moved  to  rise  and  appeal  to  them  in 
so  kindly  a  way  that  some  pulled  off  the  feathers 
then  and  there,  and  all  promised  to  reform?  She 
loved  birds  so  truly  that  she  would  not  be  angry 
when  spring  after  spring  they  picked  her  seeds  out 
of  her  'Island  Garden.'" 

"Have  you  any  special  magnetic  power  over 
birds,  so  that  they  will  come  at  your  call  or  rest  on 
your  outstretched  finger?" 

"Not  in  the  least.  I  just  like  them,  and  love 
to  get  acquainted  with  them.  Each  bird  whose 
acquaintance  I  make  is  as  truly  a  discovery  to  me 
as  if  he  were  totally  unknown  to  the  world. " 

We  were  sitting  by  a  southern  window  that 
looks  out  on  a  wide-spreading  and  ancient  elm,  my 
glory  and  pride.  Not  one  bird  had  I  seen  on  it 
that  cold,  repellent  middle  of  March.  But  Mrs. 
Miller  looked  up,  and  said:  "Your  robins  have 
come!"  Sure  enough  I  could  now  see  a  pair. 

"And  there  are  the  woodpeckers,  but  they  have 


Olive  Thorne  Miller  151 

stayed  all  winter.  No  doubt  you  have  the  hooting 
owls.  There's  an  oriole's  nest,  badly  winter-worn ; 
but  they  will  come  back  and  build  again.  I  see 
you  feed  your  chickadees  and  sparrows,  because 
they  are  so  tame  and  fearless.  I'd  like  to  come 
later  and  make  a  list  of  the  birds  on  your  place. " 

I  wonder  how  many  she  would  find.  Visiting 
at  Deerfield,  Massachusetts,  I  said  one  day  to  my 
host,  the  artist  J.  W.  Champney:  "You  don't 
seem  to  have  many  birds  round  you." 

"No?"  he  replied  with  a  mocking  rising  inflec 
tion.  "Mrs.  Miller,  who  was  with  us  last  week, 
found  thirty-nine  varieties  in  our  front  yard  before 
breakfast!"  Untrained  eyes  are  really  blind. 

Mrs.  Miller  is  an  excellent  housekeeper,  although 
a  daughter  now  relieves  her  of  that  care.  But, 
speaking  at  table  of  this  and  that  dish  and  vege 
table,  she  promised  to  send  me  some  splendid  re 
ceipts  for  orange  marmalade,  baked  canned  corn, 
scalloped  salmon,  onion  d  la  cr&me  (delicious),  and 
did  carefully  copy  and  send  them. 

She  told  me  that  in  Denmark  a  woman  over 
forty-five  is  considered  gone.  If  she  is  poor,  a 
retreat  is  ready  for  her  without  pay;  if  rich,  she 
would  better  seek  one  of  the  homes  provided  for 
aged  females  who  can  pay  well  for  a  home. 

Another  thing  of  interest  was  the  fact  that  when 


152         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

Mrs.  Miller  eats  no  breakfast,  her  brain  is  in  far 
better  condition  to  write.  She  is  a  Swedenborgian, 
and  I  think  that  persons  of  that  faith  have  usually 
a  cheerful  outlook  on  life.  She  was  obliged  to 
support  herself  after  forty  years  of  age. 

I  would  add  to  her  advice  about  a  hobby:  don't 
wait  till  middle  age;  have  one  right  away,  now. 
Boys  always  do.  I  know  of  one  young  lady  who 
makes  a  goodly  sum  out  of  home-made  marmalade ; 
another  who  makes  dresses  for  her  family  and 
special  friends;  another  who  sells  three  hundred 
dozen  "brown"  eggs  to  one  of  the  best  groceries 
in  Boston,  and  supports  herself.  By  the  way, 
what  can  you  do  ? 

Mrs.  Lippincott  had  such  a  splendid,  magnetic 
presence,  such  a  handsome  face  with  dark  poetic 
eyes,  and  accomplished  so  many  unusual  things, 
that,  knowing  her  as  I  did,  I  think  I  should  be 
untrue  to  her  if  I  did  not  try  to  show  her  as  she 
was  in  her  brilliant  prime,  and  not  merely  as  a 
punster  or  a  raconteur,  or  as  she  appeared  in  her 
dramatic  recitals,  for  these  were  but  a  small  part 
of  the  many-sided  genius. 

When  my  friend,  Mrs.  Botta,  said  one  evening 
to  her  husband :  ' '  Grace  writes  me  that  she  will  be 
here  tomorrow,  to  spend  the  Sabbath,"  and  then 
said  to  me,  "Grace  Greenwood,  I  mean;  have  you 


Grace  Lippincott  153 

ever  met  her?"  my  heart  beat  very  quickly  in 
pleasant  anticipation  of  her  coming.  Grace 
Greenwood !  Why,  I  had  known  her  and  loved  her, 
at  least  her  writings,  ever  since  I  was  ten  years  old. 

Those  dear  books,  bound  in  red,  with  such  pretty 
pictures — History  of  My  Pets  and  Recollections  of 
My  Childhood,  were  the  most  precious  volumes  in 
my  little  library.  Anyone  who  has  had  pets  and 
lost  them  (and  the  one  follows  the  other,  for  pets 
always  come  to  some  tragic  end)  will  delight  in 
these  stories. 

And  then  the  Little  Pilgrim,  which  I  used  to  like 
next  best  to  the  Youth's  Companion;  and  in  later 
years  her  spirited,  graceful  poetry ;  her  racy  maga 
zine  stories;  her  Haps  and  Mishaps  of  a  Tour  in 
Europe;  her  sparkling  letters  to  the  Tribune,  full 
of  reliable  news  from  Washington,  graphic  descrip 
tions  of  prominent  men  and  women,  capital  anec 
dotes  and  atrocious  puns; — O  how  glad  I  should 
be  to  look  in  her  face  and  to  shake  hands  with  the 
author  who  had  given  me  so  much  pleasure ! 

Well,  she  came,  I  heard  the  bell  ring,  just  when 
she  was  expected,  with  a  vigorous  .pull,  and,  as  the 
door  opened,  heard  her  say,  in  a  jolly,  soothing  way : 
"  Don't  get  into  a  passion, "  to  the  man  who  was 
swearing  at  her  big  trunk.  And  then  I  ran  away, 
not  wishing  to  intrude,  and  waited  impatiently  for 


154         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

dinner  and  an  introduction  to  my  well-beloved 
heroine. 

Grace — Mrs.  Lippincott — I  found  to  be  a  tall, 
fine-looking  lady,  with  a  commanding  figure  and  a 
face  that  did  not  disappoint  me,  as  faces  so  often 
do  which  you  have  dreamed  about.  She  had  dark 
hair,  brown  rather  than  black,  which  was  arranged 
in  becoming  puffs  round  her  face;  and  such  eyes! 
large,  dark,  magnetic,  full  of  sympathy,  of  kind, 
cordial  feelings  and  of  quick  appreciation  of  fun. 
She  talked  much  and  well.  If  I  should  repeat  all 
the  good  stories  she  told  us,  that  happy  Saturday 
night,  as  we  lingered  round  the  table,  you  would  be 
convulsed  with  laughter,  that  is,  if  I  could  give 
them  with  her  gestures,  expressions,  and  vivid 
word-pictures. 

She  told  one  story  which  well  illustrated  the 
almost  cruel  persistent  inquiries  of  neighbours 
about  someone  who  is  long  in  dying.  An  unfor 
tunate  husband  was  bothered  each  morning  by 
repeated  calls  from  children,  who  were  sent  by 
busy  mothers  to  find  out  "Just  how  Miss  Blake  was 
feeling  this  morning."  At  last  this  became  offen 
sive,  and  he  said:  "Well,  she's  just  the  same — she 
ain't  no  better  and  she  ain't  no  worse — she  keeps 
just  about  so — she's  just  about  dead,  you  can  say 
she's  dead." 


Grace  Lippincott  155 

One  Sunday  evening  she  described  her  talks  with 
the  men  in  the  prisons  and  penitentiaries,  to  whom 
she  had  been  lately  lecturing,  proving  that  these 
hardened  sinners  had  much  that  was  good  in 
them,  and  many  longings  for  a  nobler  life,  in  spite 
of  all  their  sins. 

No,  I  was  not  disappointed  in  "G.  G. "  She 
was  just  as  natural,  hearty,  and  off-hand  as  when 
some  thirty  years  ago,  she  was  a  romping,  harum- 
scarum,  bright-eyed  schoolgirl,  Sara  Clarke,  of 
western  New  York,  who  was  almost  a  gypsy  in  her 
love  for  the  fields  and  forests.  She  was  always 
ready  for  any  out-door  exercise  or  sport.  This 
gave  her  glorious  health,  which  up  to  that  time 
she  had  not  lost. 

Her  nom  de  plume,  which  she  says  she  has  never 
been  able  to  drop,  was  only  one  of  the  many 
alliterative  names  adopted  at  that  time.  Look 
over  the  magazines  and  Annuals  of  those  years, 
and  you  will  find  many  such,  as  "  Mary  Maywood, " 
4 'Dora  Dashwood,"  "Ella  Ellwood"  "Fanny 
Forrester, "  "Fanny  Fern, "  "Jennie  June, "  "Min 
nie  Myrtle,"  and  so  on  through  the  alphabet,  one 
almost  expecting  to  find  a  "Ninny  Noodle." 
Examining  one  of  Mrs.  Lippincott 's  first  scrap- 
books  of  "Extracts  from  Newspapers,"  etc., 
which  she  had  labelled,  "Vanity,  all  is  Vanity," 


156         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

I  find  many  poems  in  her  honour,  much  enthusiasm 
over  her  writings,  and  much  speculation  as  to  who 
' '  Grace  Greenwood ' '  might  really  be.  The  public 
curiosity  was  piqued  to  find  out  this  new  author 
who  added  to  forceful  originality  "the  fascination 
of  splendid  gayety  and  brilliant  trifling."  John 
Brougham,  the  actor  and  dramatist,  thus  expressed 
his  interest  in  a  published  letter  to  Willis : 

The  only  person  that  I  am  disposed  to  think,  write 
or  talk  about  at  present  is  your  dazzling,  bewitching 
correspondent,  "Grace  Greenwood."  Who  is  she? 
that  I  may  swear  by  her!  Where  is  she?  that  I  may 
fling  myself  at  her  feet !  There  is  a  splendour  and  dash 
about  her  pen  that  carry  my  fastidious  soul  captive 
by  a  single  charge.  I  shall  advertise  for  her  through 
out  the  whole  Western  country  in  the  terms  in  which 
they  inquire  for  Almeyda  in  Dryden's  Don  Sebastian: 
4 '  Have  you  seen  aught  of  a  woman  who  lacks  two  of 
the  four  elements,  who  has  nothing  in  her  nature  but 
air  and  fire?" 

And  here  is  one  of  the  poetical  tributes: 

If  to  the  old  Hellenes 

Thee  of  yore  the  gods  had  given 

Another  Muse,  another  Grace 

Had  crowned  the  Olympian  heaven. 

Whittier  at  that  time  spoke  most  cordially  of 
her  "earnest  individuality,  her  warm,  honest, 


Grace  Lippincott  157 

happy,  hopeful,  human  heart;  her  strong  loves 
and  deep  hates. 

E.  P.  Whipple,  the  Boston  critic  and  essayist, 
when  reviewing  her  poems,  spoke  of  their  "  exceed 
ing  readableness " ;  and  George  Ripley,  then  of 
the  New  York  Tribune,  said : 

One  charm  of  her  writings  is  the  frankness  with 
which  she  takes  the  reader  into  her  personal  confi 
dence.  She  is  never  formal,  never  a  martyr  to  arti 
ficial  restraint,  never  wrapped  in  a  mantle  of  reserve; 
but,  with  an  almost  childlike  simplicity,  presents  a 
transparent  revelation  of  her  inmost  thoughts  and 
feelings,  with  perfect  freedom  from  affectation. 

She  might  have  distinguished  herself  on  the 
stage  in  either  tragedy  or  comedy,  but  was  dis 
suaded  from  that  career  by  family  friends.  I 
remember  seeing  her  at  several  receptions,  reciting 
the  rough  Pike  County  dialect  verse  of  Bret  Harte 
and  John  Hay  in  costume.  Standing  behind  a 
draped  table,  with  a  big  slouch  hat  on,  and  a  red 
flannel  shirt,  loose  at  the  neck,  her  disguise  was 
most  effective,  while  her  deep  tones  held  us  all. 
Her  memory  was  phenomenal,  and  she  could  re 
peat  today  stories  of  good  things  learned  years  ago. 

Her  recitation  was  wonderful;  so  natural,  so 
full  of  soul  and  power.  I  have  heard  many  women 
read,  some  most  execrably,  who  fancied  they  were 


158         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

famous  elocutionists;  some  were  so  tolerable  that 
I  could  sit  and  endure  it ;  others  remarkably  good, 
but  I  was  never  before  so  moved  as  to  forget  where 
I  was  and  merge  the  reader  in  the  character  she 
assumed. 

Grace  Greenwood  probably  made  more  puns  in 
print  than  any  other  woman,  and  her  conversa 
tion  was  full  of  them.  It  was  Grace  Greenwood 
who,  at  a  tea-drinking  at  the  New  England  Wo 
man's  Club  in  Boston,  was  begged  to  tell  one  more 
story,  but  excused  herself  in  this  way :  ' '  No,  I  can 
not  get  more  than  one  story  high  on  a  cup  of  tea. " 

Her  conversation  was  delightful,  and  what  a 
series  of  reminiscences  she  could  have  given;  for 
she  knew,  and  in  many  cases  intimately,  most  of 
the  leading  authors,  artists,  politicians,  philanthro 
pists,  agitators,  and  actors  of  her  time  in  both 
her  own  land  and  abroad.  In  one  of  her  letters 
she  describes  the  various  authors  she  saw  while 
lounging  in  Ticknor's  old  bookstore  in  Boston. 


Here,  many  a  time,  we  saw  Longfellow,  looking 
wonderfully  like  a  ruddy,  hearty,  happy  English 
gentleman,  with  his  full  lips  and  beaming  blue  eyes. 
Whittier,  alert,  slender  and  long;  half  eager,  half  shy 
in  manner;  both  cordial  and  evasive;  his  deep-set 
eyes  glowing  with  the  tender  flame  of  the  most  humane 
genius  of  our  time. 


Grace  Lippincott  159 

Emerson's  manner  was  to  her  "a  curious 
mingling  of  Athenian  philosophy  and  Yankee 
cuteness. " 

Saxe  was  "the  handsome,  herculean  punster," 
and  so  on  with  many  others. 

She  resided  with  Miss  Cushman  in  Rome,  and 
in  London  she  saw  many  lions — Mazzini,  Kossuth, 
Dickens  and  Talfourd,  Kingsley,  Lover,  the  How- 
ellses,  Miss  Mitford,  Mrs.  Muloch  Craik,  George 
Eliot,  etc. 

She  was  the  first  Washington  correspondent  of 
her  sex,  commencing  in  1850  in  a  series  of  letters  to 
a  Philadelphia  weekly;  was  for  some  years  con 
nected  with  the  National  Era,  making  her  first 
tour  in  Europe  as  its  correspondent,  and  has 
written  much  for  The  Hearth  and  Home,  The 
Independent,  Christian  Inquirer,  Congregationalist, 
Youth's  Companion;  also  contributing  a  good  deal 
to  English  publications,  as  Household  Words  and 
All  the  Year  Round. 

She  was  the  special  correspondent  from  Washing 
ton  of  the  New  York  Tribune,  and  later  of  the 
Times.  Her  letters  were  racy,  full  of  wit,  senti 
ment,  and  discriminating  criticism,  plenty  of  fun 
and  a  little  sarcasm,  but  not  so  audaciously  per 
sonal  and  aggressive  as  some  letter-writers  from 
the  capital.  They  attracted  attention  and  were 


160         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

widely  copied,  large  extracts  being  made  for  the 
London  Times. 

She  lectured  continually  to  large  audiences  dur 
ing  the  Civil  War  on  war  themes,  and  subjects  in  a 
lighter  strain ;  was  the  first  woman  widely  received 
as  a  lecturer  by  the  colleges  and  lyceums.  With  a 
commanding  presence,  handsome  face,  an  agree 
able,  permeating  voice,  a  natural  offhand  manner, 
and  something  to  say,  she  was  at  once  a  decided 
favourite,  and  travelled  great  distances  to  meet  her 
engagements.  She  often  quoted  that  ungallant 
speech  from  the  Duke~of  Argyle:  "  Woman  has  no 
right  on  a  platform — except  to  be  hung;  then  it's 
unavoidable";  and  by  her  eloquence  and  wit 
proved  its  falsity  and  narrowness.  Without  the 
least  imitation  of  masculine  oratory,  her  best  re 
membered  lectures  are,  "The  Heroic  in  Common 
Life,"  and  "Characteristics  of  Yankee  Humour." 
She  always  had  the  rare  gift  of  telling  a  story 
capitally,  with  ease,  brevity,  and  dramatic  effect, 
certain  of  the  point  or  climax.  I  cannot  think  of 
any  other  woman  of  this  country  who  has  caused  so 
much  hearty  laughter  by  this  enviable  gift.  She 
can  compress  a  word-picture  or  character-sketch 
into  a  few  lines,  as  when  she  said  of  the  early 
Yankee:  "No  matter  how  large  a  man  he  was,  he 
had  a  look  of  shrinking  and  collapse  about  him.  It 


Grace  Lippincott  161 

looked  as  if  the  Lord  had  made  him  and  then 
pinched  him. "  And  a  woman  who  has  done  such 
good  work  in  poetry,  juvenile  literature,  journal 
ism,  on  the  platform,  and  in  books  of  travel  and 
biography,  will  not  soon  be  forgotten.  There  is 
a  list  of  eighteen  volumes  from  her  pen. 

She  never  established  a  salon,  but  the  wide 
spread,  influential  daily  paper  and  the  lecture  hall 
are  the  movable  salon  to  the  women  of  genius  in 
this  Republic. 

This  is  just  a  memory.  After  all,  we  are  but 
"  Movie  Pictures, "  seen  for  a  moment,  and  others 
take  our  place. 

XX 


CHAPTER  VI 

In  and  Near  Boston — Edward  Everett  Hale — Thomas  Went- 
worth  Higginson — Julia  Ward  Howe — Mary  A.  Livermore — 
A  Day  at  the  Concord  School — Harriet  G.  Hosmer — "  Dora 
D'Istria,"  our  Illustrious  Visitor. 

EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE  was  kind  to  me,  as  he 
was  to  all  who  came  within  his  radius.  He  once 
called  to  warn  me  to  avoid,  like  poison,  a  rascally 
impost  er  who  was  calling  on  many  of  the  authors  in 
and  near  Boston  to  get  one  thousand  dollars  from 
each  to  create  a  publishing  company,  so  that 
authors  could  have  their  books  published  at  a  much 
cheaper  rate  than  in  the  regular  way.  This  per 
son  never  called  on  me,  as  I  then  had  no  bank 
account.  He  did  utterly  impoverish  many  other 
credulous  persons,  both  writers,  and  in  private 
families.  All  was  grist  that  came  to  his  mill,  and 
he  ground  them  "exceeding  small." 

I  met  Mr.  Hale  one  early  spring  at  Pinehurst, 
North  Carolina,  with  his  wife  and  daughter.  He 
always  had  a  sad  face,  as  one  who  knew  and  grieved 

over  the  faults  and  frailties  of  humanity,  but  at 

162 


Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson    163 

this  time  he  was  recovering  from  a  severe  fall,  and 
walked  with  a  slow  and  feeble  step.  When  he 
noticed  me  sitting  on  the  broad  piazza,  he  came, 
and  taking  a  chair  beside  me,  began  to  joke  in  his 
old  way,  telling  comical  happenings,  and  inquired 
if  I  knew  where  Noah  kept  his  bees.  His  answer: 
"In  the  Ark-hives,  of  course."  Once  when  I 
asked  his  opinion  of  a  pompous,  loud-voiced  minis 
ter,  he  only  said,  "Self,  self,  self!" 

I  wonder  how  many  in  his  audiences  or  his  con 
gregation  could  understand  more  than  half  of  what 
he  was  saying.  I  once  went  to  an  Authors'  Read 
ing  in  Boston  where  he  recited  a  poem,  doubtless 
very  impressive,  but  although  in  a  box  just  over 
the  stage,  I  could  not  get  one  word.  He  placed 
his  voice  at  the  roof  of  his  mouth,  a  fine  sounding 
board,  but  the  words  went  no  farther  than  the 
inside  of  his  lips.  I  believe  his  grand  books  influ 
ence  more  persons  for  better  lives  than  even  his 
personal  presence  and  Christ-like  magnetism. 

Mr.  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson  never  failed 
me.  Once  only  I  ventured  alone  into  the  Authors' 
Club  Saturday  meeting,  and  none  of  my  own 
friends  happened  to  be  there.  Evidently  I  was  not 
known.  Mr.  Higginson  saw  the  situation  at  once, 
and  coming  quickly  to  me  escorted  me  to  a  comfort 
able  seat.  He  ordered  two  cups  of  tea  with  wafers, 


164         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

and  beckoned  to  some  delightful  men  and  women 
to  whom  he  introduced  me  as  his  friend  Miss  San- 
born,  thus  putting  me  at  my  ease.  He  was  also 
ever  patient  about  my  monomania  of  trying  to 
prove  that  women  possess  both  wit  and  humour.  He 
spoke  of  his  first  wife  as  the  wittiest  woman  he  had 
ever  known,  giving  convincing  proof.  A  few  men 
were  on  my  side,  but  they  could  be  counted  on  one 
hand  omitting  the  thumb.  But  I  worked  on  this 
theme  until  I  had  more  than  sufficient  material 
for  a  good-sized  volume.  If  a  masculine  book 
reviewer  ever  alluded  to  the  book,  it  was  with  a 
sneer.  He  generally  left  it  without  a  word,  as 
men  still  ignore  the  fact  when  a  woman  wins  in  an 
essay-writing  competition  against  men  in  her  class 
or  gets  the  verdict  for  her  powers  in  a  mixed  de 
bate.  At  last  Mr.  Higginson  wrote  me  most 
kindly  to  stop  battering  on  that  theme.  "If  any 
man  is  such  a  fool  as  to  insist  that  women  are 
destitute  of  wit  or  humour,  then  he  is  so  big  a 
fool  that  it  is  not  worth  while  to  waste  your  good 
brains  on  him.  T.  W.  Higginson. "  That  reproof 
chilled  my  ardour.  Now  you  can  hardly  find  any 
one  who  denies  that  women  possess  both  qualities, 
and  it  is  generally  acknowledged  that  not  a  few 
have  the  added  gift  of  comedy. 

As  most  biographers  of  Mrs.  Julia  Ward  Howe 


Julia  Ward  Howe  165 

dwell  on  her  other  gifts  as  philanthropist,  poet,  and 
worker  for  the  equality  of  women  with  men,  I  call 
attention  to  her  effervescent,  brilliant  wit.  Julia 
Ward  Howe  was  undeniably  witty.  Her  concur 
rence  with  a  dilapidated  bachelor,  who  retained 
little  but  his  conceit,  was  excellent.  He  said:  "It 
is  time  now  for  me  to  settle  down  as  a  married  man, 
but  I  want  so  much;  I  want  youth,  health,  wealth, 
of  course;  beauty,  grace—  "Yes,"  she  inter 
rupted  sympathetically,  "you  poor  man,  you  do 
want  them  all." 

Of  a  conceited  young  man  airing  his  disbelief 
at  length  in  a  magazine  article,  she  said:  "Charles 
evidently  thinks  he  has  invented  atheism." 
After  dining  with  a  certain  family  noted  for  their 
chilling  manners  and  lofty  exclusiveness,  she 
hurried  to  the  house  of  a  jolly  friend,  and,  seating 
herself  before  the  glowing  fire,  sought  to  regain 
a  natural  warmth,  explaining:  "I  have  spent  three 
hours  with  the  Mer  de  Glace,  the  Tete-Noire,  and 
the  Jungfrau,  and  am  nearly  frozen." 

Pathos  and  humour  as  twins  are  exemplified 
by  her  tearful  horror  over  the  panorama  of  Gettys 
burg,  and  then  by  her  saying,  when  urged  by  Mrs. 
Livermore  to  dine  with  her:  "O  no!  my  dear,  it's 
quarter  past  two,  and  Mr.  Howe  will  be  wild  if  he 
does  not  get — not  his  burg — but  his  dinner. ' ' 


166         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

Mrs.  Howe's  wit  never  failed  her.  I  once  told 
her  I  was  annoyed  by  seeing  in  big  headlines  in 
the  morning's  paper,  "Kate  Sanborn  moralizes," 
giving  my  feeble  sentiments  on  some  subject 
which  must  have  been  reported  by  a  man  whom  I 
met  for  the  first  time  the  evening  before  at  a 
reception,  though  I  was  ignorant  of  the  fact  that 
I  was  being  interviewed.  She  comforted  me  by 
saying:  "But  after  all,  how  much  better  that  was 
than  if  he  had  announced,  '  Kate  Sanborn  demoral 
izes.  ' '  Or  when  Charles  Sumner  refusing  to  meet 
some  friends  of  hers  at  dinner  explained  languidly : 
'  *  Really,  Julia,  I  have  lost  all  my  interest  in  individ 
uals."  She  retorted,  "Why,  Charles,  God  hasn't 
got  as  far  as  that  yet!"  Once  walking  in  the 
streets  of  Boston  with  a  friend  she  looked  up  and 
read  on  a  public  building,  "Charitable  Eye  and 
Ear  Infirmary. "  She  said :  "  I  did  not  know  there 
were  any  charitable  eyes  and  ears  in  Boston." 
She  showed  indomitable  courage  to  the  last.  A 
lady  in  Boston,  who  lived  opposite  Mrs.  Howe's 
home  on  Beacon  Street,  was  sitting  at  a  front  win 
dow  one  cold  morning  in  winter,  when  ice  made  the 
steps  dangerous.  A  carriage  was  driven  up  to 
Mrs.  Howe's  door  to  take  her  to  the  station  to 
attend  a  federation  at  Louisville.  She  came  out 
alone,  slipped  on  the  second  step,  and  rolled  to  the 


Mary  A.  Livermore  167 

pavement.  She  was  past  eighty,  but  picked  her 
self  up  with  the  quickness  of  a  girl,  looked  at  her 
windows  to  see  if  anyone  noticed  it,  then  entered 
the  carriage  and  drove  away. 

Was  ever  a  child  as  unselfish  as  Mary  Rice,  after 
wards  Mary  Livermore  ?  Sliding  on  ice  was  for  her 
a  climax  of  fun.  Returning  to  the  house  after 
revelling  in  this  exercise,  she  exclaimed : ' '  Splendid, 
splendid  sliding. "  Her  father  responded:  "Yes, 
Mary,  it's  great  fun,  but  wretched  for  shoes. " 

Those  words  kept  ringing  in  her  ears,  and  soon 
she  thought  how  her  father  and  mother  had  to 
practise  close  economy,  and  she  decided:  "I  ought 
not  to  wear  out  my  shoes  by  sliding,  when  shoes 
cost  so  much,"  and  she  did  not  slide  any  more. 
There  was  no  more  fun  in  it  for  her. 

She  would  get  out  of  bed,  when  not  more  than 
ten  years  old,  and  beseech  her  parents  to  rise  and 
pray  for  the  children.  ' '  It's  no  matter  about  me, " 
she  once  said  to  them,  "if  they  can  be  saved,  I  can 
bear  anything." 

She  was  not  more  than  twelve  years  old,  when 
she  determined  to  aid  her  parents  by  doing  work  of 
some  kind;  so  it  was  settled  that  she  should  become 
a  dressmaker.  She  went  at  once  into  a  shop  to 
learn  the  trade,  remained  for  three  months,  and 
after  that  was  hired  at  thirty-seven  cents  a  day  to 


1 68         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

work  there  three  months  more.  She  also  applied 
for  work  at  a  clothing  store,  and  received  a  dozen 
red  flannel  shirts  to  make  up  at  six  and  a  quarter 
cents  a  piece.  When  her  mother  found  this  out, 
she  burst  into  tears,  and  the  womanly  child  was  not 
allowed  to  take  any  more  work  home.  We  all 
know  Mrs.  Livermore's  war  record  and  her  power 
and  eloquence  as  an  orator. 

I  would  not  say  she  was  a  spiritualist,  but  she 
felt  sure  that  she  often  had  advice  or  warning  on 
questions  from  some  source,  and  always  listened, 
and  was  saved  from  accidents  and  danger.  And 
she  said  that  what  was  revealed  to  her  as  she  rested 
on  her  couch,  between  twilight  and  dusk,  would  not 
be  believed,  it  was  so  wonderful. 

Mrs.  Livermore  had  a  terrible  grief  to  bear, — 
the  lifelong  illness  of  her  daughter  from  a  chronic 
and  incurable  disease.  She  told  me,  when  I  was 
at  her  house,  that  she  kept  on  lecturing,  and 
accepting  invitations,  to  divert  her  mind  some 
what.  She  felt  at  times  that  she  could  not  leave 
her  unfortunate  child  behind,  when  she  should  be 
called  from  earth,  but  she  was  enabled  to  drive 
that  thought  away.  From  a  child,  always  helping 
others,  self-sacrificing,  heroic,  endowed  with  mar 
vellous  energy  and  sympathy,  hers  was  a  most  ex 
ceptional  life;  now  " Victor  Palms"  are  her  right. 


At  the  Concord  School  169 

I  spent  one  day  at  the  famous  Concord  School 
of  Philosophy  during  its  first  season.  Of  course 
I  understood  nothing  that  was  going  on. 

Emerson,  then  a  mere  wreck  of  his  former  self, 
was  present,  cared  for  by  his  wife  or  his  daughter 
Ellen.  Alcott  made  some  most  remarkable  state 
ments,  as:  "We  each  can  decide  when  we  will 
ascend."  Then  he  would  look  around  as  if  to 
question  all,  and  add :  "  Is  it  not  so  ?  Is  it  not  so  ? " 
I  remember  another  of  his  mystic  utterances: 
"When  the  mind  is  izzing,  it  is  thinking  things. 
Is  it  not  so?  Is  it  not  so?"  Also,  "When  we 
get  angry  or  lose  our  temper,  then  fierce  four-footed 
beasts  come  out  of  our  mouths,  do  they  not,  do 
they  not?" 

After  Mr.  Harris,  the  great  educational  light, 
had  closed  his  remarks,  and  had  asked  for  questions, 
one  lady  timidly  arose  and  inquired : ' '  Can  an  atom 
be  said  to  be  outside  or  inside  of  potentiality?  " 

He  calmly  replied  that  "it  could  be  said  to  be 
either  inside  or  outside  potentiality,  as  we  might 
say  of  potatoes  in  a  hat ;  they  are  either  inside  or 
outside  the  hat."  That  seemed  to  satisfy  her 
perfectly. 

Mr.  Frank  B.  Sanborn  read  his  lecture  on  Amer 
ican  Literature,  and  I  ventured  to  ask:  "How 
would  you  define  literature?" 


170         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

He  said:  " Anything  written  that  gives  perma 
nent  pleasure. "  And  then  as  he  was  a  relative,  I 
inquired,  but  probably  was  rather  pert:  ''Would  a 
bank  check,  if  it  were  large  enough,  be  literature? " 
which  was  generally  considered  as  painfully  trifling. 

Jones  of  Jacksonville  was  on  the  program,  and 
talked  and  talked,  but  as  I  could  not  catch  one 
idea,  I  cannot  report. 

It  was  awfully  hot  on  that  hill  with  the  sun 
shining  down  through  the  pine  roof,  so  I  thought 
one  day  enough. 

As  I  walked  down  the  hill,  I  heard  a  man  who 
seemed  to  have  a  lot  of  hasty  pudding  in  his  mouth, 
say  in  answer  to  a  question  from  the  lady  with 
him:  "Why,  if  you  can't  understand  that,  you  can 
have  no  idea  of  the  first  principles  (this  with  an 
emphatic  gesture)  of  the  Hegelian  philosophy." 

Alcott  struck  me  as  a  happy  dreamer.  He  said 
to  me  joyously : ' '  I'm  going  West  in  Lou's  chariot, " 
and  of  course  with  funds  provided  by  his  daughter. 

An  article  written  by  her,  entitled  "Transcen 
dental  Wild  Oats,"  made  a  great  impression  on 
my  mind. 

It  appeared  in  a  long-ago  Independent  and  I 
tried  in  vain  to  find  it  last  winter.  Houghton 
and  Mifflin  have  recently  published  Bronson 
Alcott's  "Fruitlands"  compiled  by  Clara  Endicott 


Harriet  G.  Hosmer  171 

Sears,  with  "Transcendental  Wild  Oats"  by  Louisa 
M.  Alcott,  so  it  is  brought  to  the  notice  of  those 
who  will  appreciate  it. 

I  called  once  on  Miss  Hosmer,  who  then  was 
living  with  relatives  in  Watertown,  Massachusetts, 
her  old  home;  the  house  where  she  was  born  and 
where  she  did  her  first  modelling.  Recently  read 
ing  in  Miss  Whiting's  record  of  Kate  Field's  life, 
of  Miss  Hosmer  as  a  universal  favourite  in  Rome, 
a  dearly  loved  friend  of  the  Brownings,  and  asso 
ciated  with  the  literary  and  artistic  coterie  there, 
a  living  part  of  that  memorable  group,  most  of 
whom  are  gone,  I  longed  to  look  in  her  eyes,  to 
shake  her  hand,  to  listen  to  her  conversation. 
Everyone  knows  of  her  achievements  as  a  sculptor. 

After  waiting  a  few  minutes,  into  the  room 
tripped  a  merry-faced,  bright-eyed  little  lady,  all 
animation  and  cordiality  as  she  said:  "It  is  your 
fault  that  I  am  a  little  slo^v  in  coming  down,  for  I 
was  engrossed  in  one  of  your  own  books,  too  much 
interested  to  remember  to  dress. " 

The  question  asked  soon  brought  a  flow  of  de 
lightful  recollection  of  Charlotte  Cushman,  Frances 
Power  Cobbe,  Grace  Greenwood,  Kate  Field,  and 
the  Brownings.  "Yes,"  she  said,  "I  dined  with 
them  all  one  winter;  they  were  lovely  friends/' 
She  asked  if  we  would  like  to  see  some  autograph 


172         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

letters  of  theirs.  One  which  seemed  specially 
characteristic  of  Robert  Browning  was  written  on 
the  thinnest  of  paper  in  the  finest  hand,  difficult 
to  decipher.  And  on  the  flap  of  the  envelope  was 
a  long  message  from  his  wife.  Each  letter  was 
addressed  to  "My  dearest  Hattie,"  and  ended, 
"Yours  most  affectionately."  There  was  one 
most  comical  impromptu  sent  to  her  by  Browning, 
from  some  country  house  where  there  was  a  house 
party.  They  were  greatly  grieved  at  her  failure 
to  appear,  and  each  name  was  twisted  into  a  rhyme 
at  the  end  of  a  line.  Sir  Roderick  Murchison,  for 
instance,  was  run  in  thus : 

As  welcome  as  to  cow  is  fodder-rick 
Would  be  your  presence  to  Sir  Roderick. 

A  poor  pun  started  another  vein.  ' '  You  must  hear 
some  of  Miss  Cobbe's  puns,"  said  Miss  Hosmer, 
and  they  were  so  daringly,  glaring  bad,  as  to  be 
very  good.  When  lame  from  a  sprain,  she  was 
announced  by  a  pompous  butler  at  a  reception  as 
"Miss  Cobble."  "No,  Miss  Hobble,"  was  her 
instant  correction.  She  weighed  nearly  three 
hundred  pounds  and,  one  day,  complaining  of  a 
pain  in  the  small  of  her  back  her  brother  exclaimed : 
"O  Frances,  where  is  the  small  of  your  back?" 
Miss  Hosmer  regarded  Grace  Greenwood  (Mrs. 


Dora  D'Istria  173 

Lippincott)  as  one  of  the  best  raconteurs  and  wit 
tiest  women  she  had  known.  She  was  with  her  at 
some  museum  where  an  immense  antique  drinking 
cup  was  exhibited,  large  enough  for  a  sitz  bath. 
''A  goblet  for  a  Titan,"  said  Harriet.  ''And  the 
one  who  drained  it  would  be  a  tight  un, "  said 
Grace. 

She  thought  the  best  thing  ever  said  about  sea 
sickness  was  from  Kate  Field,  who,  after  a  tem 
pestuous  trip,  said:  "Lemonade  is  the  only  satis 
factory  drink  on  a  sea  voyage;  it  tastes  as  well 
coming  up  as  going  down. " 

The  last  years  of  this  brilliant  and  beloved 
woman  were  devoted  to  futile  attempts  to  solve  the 
problem  of  Perpetual  Motion.  I  wish  she  had 
given  us  her  memories  instead. 

Helen  Ghika  was  born  at  Bucharest,  Wallachia,  the 
22nd  of  January,  1829.  The  Ghika  family  is  of  an 
ancient  and  noble  race.  It  originated  in  Albania, 
and  two  centuries  ago  the  head  of  it  went  to  Wallachia, 
where  it  had  been  a  powerful  and  ruling  family.  In 
1849,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  the  Princess  was  married 
to  a  Russian,  Prince  Koltzoff  Massalsky,  a  descendant 
of  the  old  Vikings  of  Moldavia;  her  marriage  has  not 
been  a  congenial  one. 

A  sketch  of  the  distinguished  woman,  Helen  Ghika, 
the  Princess  Massalsky,  who,  under  the  nom  de  plume 


174         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

of  Dora  D'Istria,  has  made  for  herself  a  reputation 
and  position  in  the  world  of  letters  among  the  great 
women  of  our  century,  will  at  least  have  something 
of  the  charm  of  novelty  for  most  American  readers. 
In  Europe  this  lady  was  everywhere  known,  beloved 
by  many  personal  friends,  and  admired  by  all  who  had 
read  her  works.  Her  thought  was  profound  and 
liberal,  her  views  were  broad  and  humane.  As  an 
author,  philanthropist,  traveller,  artist,  and  one  of  the 
strongest  advocates  of  freedom  and  liberty  for  the 
oppressed  of  both  sexes,  and  of  her  suffering  sisters 
especially,  she  was  an  honour  to  the  time  and  to 
womanhood.  The  women  of  the  old  world  found  in 
her  a  powerful,  sympathizing,  yet  rational  champion; 
just  in  her  arguments  in  their  behalf,  able  in  her 
statements  of  their  needs,  and  thoroughly  interested 
in  their  elevation  and  improvement. 

Her  works  embrace  a  vast  range  of  thought,  and 
show  profound  study  and  industry.  The  subjects 
are  many.  They  number  about  twenty  volumes  on 
nationality,  on  social  questions  more  than  eight,  on 
politics  eighteen  or  twenty.  Her  travels  fill  fifteen 
books,  and,  beside  all  this,  she  wrote  three  romances, 
numerous  letters  and  articles  for  the  daily  papers, 
and  addresses  to  be  read  before  various  learned 
societies,  of  which  she  was  an  honoured  member. 
M.  Deschanel,  the  critic  of  the  Journal  des  Debats, 
has  said  of  her  that  "each  one  of  her  works  would 
suffice  for  the  reputation  of  a  man."  As  an  artist, 
her  paintings  have  been  much  admired.  One  of  her 
books  of  travel,  A  Summer  on  the  Banks  of  the  Danube, 
has  a  drawing  by  its  author,  a  view  of  Borcia  in 
Roumania.  From  a  notable  exhibition  at  St.  Peters 
burg  she  received  a  silver  medal  for  two  pictures 


Dora  D'Istria  175 

called  "The  Pine"  and  "The  Palm,"  suggested  to  her 
by  Heine's  beautiful  little  poem: 

"A  pine-tree  sleeps  alone 

On  northern  mountain-side ; 
Eternal  stainless  snows 

Stretch  round  it  far  and  wide. 

"  The  pine  dreams  of  a  palm 
As  lonely,  sad,  and  still, 
In  glowing  eastern  clime 
On  burning,  rocky  hill." 

This  princess  was  the  idol  of  her  native  people,  who 
called  her,  with  the  warm  enthusiasm  of  their  race, 
"The  Star  of  Albania. "  The  learned  and  cultivated 
also  did  her  homage.  Named  by  Frederika  Bremer 
and  the  Athenians,  "The  New  Corinne,  "  she  was 
invested  by  the  Greeks  with  the  citizenship  of  Greece 
for  her  efforts  to  assist  the  people  of  Candia  to  throw 
off  the  oppressor's  yoke,  this  being  the  first  time  this 
honour  had  ever  been  granted  to  a  woman. 

The  catalogue  of  her  writings  fills  several  pages,  the 
list  of  titles  given  her  by  learned  societies  nearly  as 
many  more  and,  while  born  a  princess  of  an  ancient 
race  and  by  marriage  one  also,  she  counted  these 
titles  of  rank  as  nothing  compared  with  her  working 
name,  and  was  more  widely  known  as  Dora  D'Istria 
than  as  the  Princess  Koltzoff  Massalsky. 

There  is  a  romantic  fascination  about  this  woman's 
life  as  brilliant  as  fiction,  but  more  strange  and  re 
markable  in  that  it  is  all  sober  truth — nay,  to  her 
much  of  it  was  even  sad  reality.  Her  career  was  a 
glorious  one,  but  lonely  as  the  position  of  her  pictured 


176         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

palm-tree,  and  oftentimes  only  upheld  by  her  own 
consciousness  of  the  right;  she  has  felt  the  trials  of 
minds  isolated  by  greatness.  Singularly  gifted  by 
nature  with  both  mental  and  physical,  as  well  as  social 
superiority,  the  Princess  united  in  an  unusual  degree 
masculine  strength  of  character,  grasp  of  thought, 
philosophical  calmness,  love  of  study  and  research, 
joined  to  an  ardent  and  impassioned  love  of  the  grand, 
the  true,  and  the  beautiful.  She  had  the  grace  and 
tenderness  of  the  most  sensitive  of  women,  added  to 
mental  endowments  rare  in  a  man.  Her  beauty, 
which  had  been  remarkable,  was  the  result  of  perfect 
health,  careful  training,  and  an  active  nature.  Her 
physical  training  made  her  a  fearless  swimmer,  a  bold 
rider,  and  an  excellent  walker — all  of  which  greatly 
added  to  her  active  habits  and  powers  of  observation 
in  travelling,  for  she  travelled  much.  Only  a  person 
of  uncommon  bodily  vigour  can  so  enjoy  nature  in  her 
wildest  moods  and  grandest  aspects. 

This  quotation  is  from  a  long  article  which  Mrs. 
Grace  L.  Oliver,  of  Boston,  published  in  an  early 
number  of  Scribner's  Magazine.  I  never  had 
known  of  the  existence  of  this  learned,  accom 
plished  woman,  but  after  reading  this  article  I 
ventured  to  ask  her  to  send  me  the  material  for  a 
lecture  and  she  responded  most  generously,  send 
ing  books,  many  sketches  of  her  career,  full  lists 
of  the  subjects  which  had  most  interested  her, 
poems  addressed  to  her  as  if  she  were  a  goddess, 
and  the  pictures  she  added  proved  her  to  have 


Dora  D'Istria  177 

been  certainly  very  beautiful.  "She  looked  like 
Venus  and  spoke  like  Minerva. " 

My  audience  was  greatly  interested.  She  was  as 
new  to  them  as  to  me  and  all  she  had  donated  was 
handed  round  to  an  eager  crowd.  In  about  six 
months  I  saw  in  the  papers  that  Dora  D'Istria  was 
taking  a  long  trip  to  America  to  meet  Mrs.  Oliver, 
Edison,  Longfellow,  and  myself! 

I  called  on  her  later  at  a  seashore  hotel  near 
Boston.  She  had  just  finished  her  lunch,  and  said 
she  had  been  enjoying  for  the  first  time  boiled  corn 
on  the  cob.  She  was  sitting  on  the  piazza,  rather 
shabbily  dressed,  her  skirt  decidedly  travel- 
stained.  Traces  of  the  butter  used  on  the  corn 
were  visible  about  her  mouth  and  she  was  smoking 
a  large  and  very  strong  cigar,  a  sight  not  so  com 
mon  at  that  time  in  this  country.  A  rocking  chair 
was  to  her  a  delightful  novelty  and  she  had  already 
bought  six  large  rocking  chairs  of  wicker  work. 
She  was  sitting  in  one  and  busily  swaying  back  and 
forward  and  said:  "Here  I  do  repose  myself  and 
I  take  these  chairs  home  with  me  and  when  de 
gentlemen  and  de  ladies  do  come  to  see  me  in  Flor 
ence,  I  do  show  them  how  to  repose  themselves." 

Suddenly  she  looked  at  me  and  began  to  laugh 
immoderately.  "Oh/'  she  explained,  seeing  my 
puzzled  expression,  "I  deed  think  of  you  as  so 


178         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

deeferent,  I  deed  think  you  were  very  tall  and 
theen,  with  leetle,  wiggly  curls  on  each  side  of 
your  face." 

She  evidently  had  in  mind  the  typical  old  maid 
with  gimlet  ringlets!  So  we  sat  and  rocked  and 
laughed,  for  I  was  equally  surprised  to  meet  a 
person  so  "different"  from  my  romantic  ideal. 
Like  the  two  Irishmen,  who  chancing  to  meet  were 
each  mistaken  in  the  identity  of  the  other.  As  one 
of  them  put  it,  "We  looked  at  each  other  and,  faith, 
it  turned  out  to  be  nayther  of  us. " 

The  Princess  Massalsky  sent  to  Mrs.  Oliver 
and  myself  valuable  tokens  of  her  regard  as  sou 
venirs. 


CHAPTER  VII 

Elected  to  be  the  First  President  of  New  Hampshire  Daughters 
in  Massachusetts  and  New  Hampshire — Now  Honorary 
President— Kind  Words  which  I  Highly  Value— Three,  but 
not  "of  a  Kind" — A  Strictly  Family  Affair — Two  Favourite 
Poems — Breezy  Meadows. 

ON  May  15,  1894,  I  was  elected  to  be  the  first 
president  of  the  New  Hampshire  Daughters  in 
Massachusetts  and  New  Hampshire,  and  held  the 
position  for  three  years.  Was  then  made  Hon 
orary  President. 

Some  unsolicited  approval : 

Hers  was  a  notable  administration,  and  brought  to 
the  organization  a  prestige  which  remains.  Rules 
might  fail,  but  the  brilliant  president  never.  She 
governed  a  merry  company,  many  of  them  famous, 
but  she  was  chief.  They  loved  her,  and  that  affection 
and  pride  still  exist. 

A  daughter  of  the  "Granite  State,"  who  can  cer 
tainly  take  front  rank  among  business  women,  is 
Kate  Sanborn,  the  beloved  president  of  New  Hamp 
shire's  Daughters. 

179 


i8o         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

Another  thing  that  has  occupied  Miss  Sanborn's 
time  this  summer  aside  from  farming  and  writing  is 
the  program  for  the  coming  winter's  work  for  the 
Daughters  of  New  Hampshire.  It  is  all  planned,  and 
if  all  the  women's  clubs  carry  such  a  program  as  the 
one  which  Miss  Sanborn  has  planned,  and  that  means 
that  it  will  be  carried  out,  the  winter's  history  of 
women's  clubs  will  be  one  of  unprecedented  prosperity. 

If  New  Hampshire's  daughters  now  living  out  of 
their  own  State  do  not  keep  track  of  each  other,  and 
become  acquainted  into  the  bargain,  it  will  not  be  the 
fault  of  their  president,  who  has  carried  on  corre 
spondence  with  almost  every  one  of  them,  and  who 
has  planned  a  winter's  work  that  will  enable  them 
to  learn  something  about  their  own  State,  as  well  as 
to  meet  for  the  promoting  of  acquaintance. 

OUR  FIRST  MEETING 

This  meeting  was  presided  over  by  our  much  loved 
First-President,  Kate  Sanborn,  and  it  was  the  most 
informal,  spontaneous,  and  altogether  enjoyable  organ 
ization  meeting  that  could  be  imagined,  and  the  happy 
spirit  came  that  has  guided  our  way  and  helped  us 
over  the  rough  places  leading  us  always  to  the  light. 

Our  first  resolve  was  to  enjoy  to  the  utmost  the 
pleasure  of  being  together,  and  with  it  to  do  everything 
possible  to  help  our  native  State.  To  these  two  objects 
we  have  been  steadfastly  true  in  all  the  years;  and 
how  we  have  planned,  and  what  we  have  done  has 
been  recorded  to  our  credit,  so  that  we  may  now  say 
in  looking  back,  "We  have  kept  the  faith  and  been 
true." 


Kind  Words  181 

At  this  time  there  are  so  many  memories,  all  equally 
precious  and  worthy  of  mention  here,  but  we  must  be 
brief  and  only  a  few  can  be  recalled. 

In  our  early  years  our  Kate  Sanborn  led  us  through 
so  many  pleasant  paths,  and  with  her  "twin  Presi 
dent,"  Julia  K.  Dyer,  brought  the  real  New  Hamp 
shire  atmosphere  into  it  all. 

That  was  a  grand  Dartmouth  Day,  when  the  good 
man,  Eleazar  Wheelock,  came  down  from  his  accus 
tomed  wall  space  to  grace  our  program  and  the  Dart 
mouth  Sons  brought  their  flag  and  delighted  us  with 
their  college  songs. 

Since  then  have  come  to  us  governors,  senators, 
judges,  mayors,  and  many  celebrities,  all  glad  to  bring 
some  story  with  the  breath  of  the  hills  to  New  Hamp 
shire's  Daughters.  Kate  Sanborn  first  called  for 
our  county  tributes,  to  renew  old  acquaintances  and 
promote  rivalry  among  the  members.  We  adorned 
ourselves  with  the  gold  buttercup  badges,  and  adopted 
the  grey  and  garnet  as  our  colors. 

NEW  HAMPSHIRE'S  DAUGHTERS 
Members  of  the  Society  Hold  an  Experience  Meeting. 

The  first  meeting  of  the  season  of  New  Hampshire's 
Daughters  was  held  at  the  Hotel  Vendome,  Boston, 
Saturday  afternoon,  and  was  a  most  successful  gather 
ing,  both  in  point  of  attendance  and  of  general  interest. 
The  business  of  the  association  was  transacted  under 
the  direction  of  the  president,  Miss  Kate  Sanborn, 
whose  free  construction  of  parliamentary  law  and 
independent  adherence  to  common  sense  as  against 
narrow  conventionality,  results  in  satisfactory  pro- 


1 82         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

gress  and  rapid  action.  The  150  or  more  ladies  pres 
ent  were  more  convinced  than  ever  that  Miss  Sanborn 
is  the  right  woman  in  the  right  place,  although  she 
herself  indignantly  repudiates  the  notion  that  she  is 
fitted  to  the  position. 

The  Daughters  declare  that  the  rapid  growth  of 
the  organization  is  due  to  Miss  Sanborn  more  than  to 
any  other  influence.  Her  ability,  brightness,  wit, 
happy  way  of  managing,  and  her  strong  personality 
generally  are  undoubtedly  at  present  the  mainstays 
of  the  Daughters'  organization.  She  is  ably  assisted 
by  an  enthusiastic  corps  of  officers. 

MY  DEAR  KATE  SANBORN: 

Your  calendar  about  old  age  is  simply  au  fait. 
After  reading  it,  I  want  to  hurry  up  and  grow  old  as 
fast  as  I  can.  It  is  the  best  collection  of  sane  thoughts 
upon  old  age  that  I  know  in  any  language.  Life 
coming  from  the  Source  of  Life  must  be  glorious 
throughout.  Thelastof  life  should  be  its  best.  Octo 
ber  is  the  king  of  all  the  year.  A  man  should  be  more 
wonderful  at  eighty  than  at  twenty;  a  woman  should 
make  her  seventieth  birthday  more  fascinating  than 
her  seventeenth.  Merit  never  deserts  the  soul.  God 
is  with  His  children  always. 

Yours  for  a  long  life  and  happiness, 

PETER  MACQUEEN. 

DEAR  KATE  SANBORN  : 

The  "Indian  Summer  Calendar"  is  the  best  thing 
you  have  done  yet.  I  have  read  it  straight  through 
twice,  and  now  it  lies  on  my  desk,  and  I  read  daily 


PETER    MACQUEEN 


Kind  Words  183 

selections  from  it,  as  some  of  the  good  people  read 
from  their  " Golden  Treasury  of  Texts." 

MARY  A.  LIVERMORE. 

DEAR  Miss  SANBORN  : 

It  gives  me  pleasure  to  offer  my  testimonial  to  your 
unique,  original,  and  very  picturesque  lectures.  The 
one  to  which  I  recently  listened,  in  the  New  England 
Conservatory  of  Music,  was  certainly  the  most  en 
tertaining  of  any  humorous  lecture  to  which  I  have 
ever  listened,  and  it  left  the  audience  talking,  with  such 
bright,  happy  faces,  I  can  see  it  now  in  my  mind.  And 
they  continued  to  repeat  the  happy  things  you  said; 
at  least  my  own  friends  did.  It  was  not  a  "plea  for 
cheerfulness, "  it  was  cheerfulness.  I  hope  you  may 
give  it,  and  make  the  world  laugh,  a  thousand  times. 
"He  who  makes  what  is  useful  agreeable,"  said  old 
Horace  of  literature,  "wins  every  vote."  You  have 
the  wit  of  making  the  useful  agreeable,  and  the  spirit 
and  genius  of  it. 

Sincerely, 
HEZEKIAH  BUTTERWORTH. 

I  published  a  little  volume,  A  Truthful  Woman 
in  Southern  California,  which  had  a  large  sale  for 
many  years.  Women  tourists  bought  it  to  "en 
large"  with  their  photographs.  Stedman  wrote 
me,  after  I  had  sent  him  my  book: 

MY  DEAR  KATE  SANBORN: 

I  think  it  especially  charming  that  you  should 
so  remember  me  and  send  me  a  gift-copy  of  Truthful 
Kate's  breezy  and  fascinating  report  of  Southern 
California.  For  I  had  been  so  taken  with  your 


184         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

adoption  of  that  Abandoned  Farm  that  I  had 
made  a  note  of  your  second  book.  Your  chap 
ters  give  me  as  vivid  an  idea  of  Southern  California 
as  I  obtained  from  Miss  Hazard's  watercolors,  and 
that  is  saying  a  good  deal.  We  all  like  you,  and  indeed 
who  does  not  ?  And  your  books,  so  fresh  and  sparkling, 
make  us  like  you  even  more.  Believe  that  I  am 
gratified  by  your  unexpected  gift,  and  by  the  note 
that  convoyed  it. 

EDMUND  C.  STEDMAN. 

New  York  Public  Library, 

Office  of  Circulation  Department, 
209  West  23rd  Street, 

February  19, 1907. 
Miss  KATE  SANBORN, 

Metcalf,  Mass. 
DEAR  Miss  SANBORN: 

You  may  be  interested  to  know  that  your  book  on 
old  wall-papers  is  included  in  a  list  of  books  specially 
recommended  for  libraries  in  Great  Britain,  compiled 
by  the  Library  Association  of  the  United  Kingdom, 
recently  published  in  London.  As  there  seems  to  be 
a  rather  small  proportion  of  American  works  included 
in  the  list,  I  think  that  this  may  be  worthy  of  note. 
With  kindest  regards,  I  remain, 

Very  truly  yours, 

ARTHUR  E.  BOSTWICK. 
Chief  of  the  Circulation  Department. 

MY  DEAR  Miss  KATE  SANBORN: 

How  kind  and  generous  you  are  to  my  books,  and 
therefore,  to  me!  How  thoroughly  you  understand 
them  and  know  why  I  wrote  them ! 


Kind  Words  185 

When  a  book  of  mine  is  sent  out  into  the  cold  world 
of  indifferent  reviewers,  I  read  their  platitudinous 
words,  trying  to  be  grateful;  but  waiting,  waiting, 
knowing  that  ere  long  I  shall  get  a  little  clipping  from 
the  Somerville  Journal,  written  by  Kate  San  born; 
and  then  I  shall  know  what  the  book  is.  If  it's  good, 
she'll  say  so,  and  if  it  isn't,  I  think  she  would  say  so; 
but  that  alternative  never  has  come  to  me.  But  I 
would  far  rather  have  her  true  words  of  dispraise 
than  all  machine-made  twaddle  of  nearly  all  the  book 
columns  of  our  great  American  press. 

It  is  such  generous  minds  as  yours  that  have  kept 
me  writing.  I  should  have  stopped  long  ago  if  I 
had  not  had  them. 

ALICE  MORSE  EARLE. 

It  is  impossible  to  give  you  a  perfect  pen  picture  of 
Breezy  Meadows  or  of  its  mistress,  Kate  Sanborn, 
just  as  it  is  impossible  to  paint  the  tints  of  a  glorious 
sunset  stretching  across  the  winter  sky.  Breezy 
Meadows  is  an  ideal  country  home,  and  the  mistress 
of  it  all  is  a  grand  woman — an  honor  to  her  sex,  and 
a  loyal  friend.  Her  whole  life  seems  to  be  devoted 
to  making  others  happy,  and  a  motto  on  one  of  the 
walls  of  the  house  expresses  better  than  I  can,  her  daily 
endeavour : 

"Let  me,  also,  cheer  a  spot, 
Hidden  field  or  garden  grot, 
Place  where  passing  souls  may  rest, 
On  the  way,  and  be  their  best." 

BARBARA  GALPIN. 

As  a  lecturer,  Miss  Kate  Sanborn  is  thoroughly 
unique.  Whatever  her  topic,  one  is  always  sure  there 


i86         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

will  be  wit  and  the  subtlest  humour  in  her  discourse, 
bits  of  philosophy  of  life,  and  the  most  practical 
common  sense,  flashes  of  laughable  personal  history, 
and  gems  of  scholarship.  It  is  always  certain  that 
the  lecture  will  be  rendered  in  inimitably  bright  and 
cheery  style  that  will  enliven  her  audience,  which, 
while  laughing  and  applauding,  will  listen  intently 
throughout.  No  wonder  she  is  a  favourite  with 
lecture  goers,  for  few  can  give  them  so  delightful 
an  evening  as  she. — MARY  A.  LIVERMORE. 

There  is  only  one  Kate  Sanborn.  Her  position  as 
a  lecturer  is  unique.  In  the  selection  and  treatment 
of  her  themes  she  has  no  rival.  She  touches  nothing 
that  she  does  not  enliven  and  adorn.  Pathos  and 
humour,  wit  and  wisdom,  anecdote  and  incident,  the 
foibles,  fancies,  freaks,  and  fashions  of  the  past  and 
present,  pen  pictures  of  great  men  and  famous  women, 
illustrious  poets  and  distinguished  authors,  enrich 
her  writings,  as  if  the  ages  had  laid  their  wealth  of 
love  and  learning  at  her  feet,  and  bidden  her  help 
herself.  With  a  discriminating  and  exacting  taste, 
she  has  brought  together,  in  book  and  lecture,  the 
things  that  others  have  overlooked,  or  never  found. 
She  has  been  a  kind  of  discoverer  of  thoughts  and 
things  in  the  by-paths  of  literature.  She  also  under 
stands  "the  art  of  putting  things."  But  vastly 
more  than  the  thought,  style,  and  utterance  is  the 
striking  personality  of  the  writer  herself.  It  is  not 
enough  to  read  the  writings  of  Miss  Sanborn,  though 
you  cannot  help  doing  this.  She  must  be  heard,  if 
one  would  know  the  secret  of  her  power — subtle, 
magnetic,  impossible  of  transfer  to  books.  The 
"personal  equation"  is  everything — the  strong,  gifted 


Sam  Walter  Foss  187 

woman  putting  her  whole  soul  into  the  interpretation 
and  transmission  of  her  thought  so  that  it  may  in 
spire  the  hearts  of  those  who  listen;  the  power  of 
self -radiation.  It  is  not  surprising  that  Miss  San- 
born  is  everywhere  greeted  with  enthusiasm  when 
she  speaks. — ARTHUR  LITTLE. 

Miss  Kate  Sanborn  is  one  of  the  best  qualified 
women  in  this  country  to  lecture  on  literary  themes. 
The  daugher  of  a  Dartmouth  professor,  she  was 
cradled  in  literature,  and  has  made  it  in  a  certain  way 
the  work  of  her  life.  There  is  nothing,  however,  of 
the  pedantic  about  her.  She  is  the  embodiment  of 
a  woman's  wit  and  humour;  but  her  forte  is  a  certain 
crisp  and  lively  condensation  of  persons  and  qualities 
which  carry  a  large  amount  of  information  under  a 
captivating  cloak  of  vivacious  and  confidential  talk 
with  her  audience,  rather  than  didactic  statement. 
J.  C.  CROLY,  "Jenny  June." 

One  of  the  friends  I  miss  most  at  the  farm  is 
Sam  Walter  Foss.  He  was  the  poet,  philosopher, 
lecturer  and  "friend  of  man."  His  folk  songs 
touched  every  heart  and  even  the  sombre  vein 
lightened  with  pictures  of  hope  and  cheer.  He  was 
humorous  and  even  funny,  but  in  every  line  there 
is  a  dignity  not  often  reached  by  writers  of  witty 
verse  or  prose.  Mr.  Foss  was  born  in  Candia,  N. 
H.,  in  June,  1858.  Through  his  ancestor,  Stephen 
Batcheller,  he  had  kinship  with  Daniel  Webster, 
John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  and  William  Pitt 
Fessenden. 


1 88         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

Mr.  Foss  secured  an  interest  in  the  Lynn  Union, 
and  it  was  while  engaged  in  publishing  that  news 
paper  that  he  made  the  discovery  that  he  could  be 
a  "funny  man."  The  man  having  charge  of  the 
funny  column  left  suddenly,  and  Mr.  Foss  decided 
to  see  what  he  could  do  in  the  way  of  writing  some 
thing  humorous  to  fill  the  column.  He  had 
never  done  anything  of  this  kind  before,  and  was 
surprised  and  pleased  to  have  some  of  his  readers 
congratulate  him  on  his  new  "funny  man."  He 
continued  to  write  for  this  column  and  for  a  long 
time  his  identity  was  unknown,  he  being  referred 
to  simply  as  the  "Lynn  Union  funny  man. "  His 
ability  finally  attracted  the  attention  of  Wolcott 
Balestier,  the  editor  of  Tit-Bits,  who  secured  Mr. 
Foss's  services  for  that  paper.  Before  long  he 
became  connected  with  Puck,  Judge,  and  several 
other  New  York  periodicals,  including  the  New 
York  Sun. 

Mr.  Foss's  first  book  was  published  in  1894, 
and  was  entitled  Back  Country  Poems  and  has 
passed  through  several  editions.  Whiffs  from  Wild 
Meadows  issued  in  1896  has  been  fully  as  suc 
cessful.  Later  books  are  Dreams  in  Homespun, 
Songs  of  War  and  Peace,  Songs  of  the  Average 
Man. 

He  had  charge  of  the  Public  Library  at  Somer- 


SAM    WALTER    FOSS 


S.  W.  Foss  as  Poet  189 

ville,  Massachusetts,  and  his  influence  in  library 
matters  extended  all  over  New  England. 

His  poems  are  marked  by  simplicity.  Most  of 
his  songs  are  written  in  New  England  dialect  which 
he  has  used  with  unsurpassed  effect.  But  this 
poetry  was  always  of  the  simplest  kind,  of  the 
appealing  nature  which  reaches  the  heart.  Of  his 
work  and  his  aim,  he  said  in  his  first  volume : 

"It  is  not  the  greatest  singer 

Who  tries  the  loftiest  themes, 
He  is  the  true  joy  bringer 

Who  tells  his  simplest  dreams, 
He  is  the  greatest  poet 

Who  will  renounce  all  art 
And  take  his  heart  and  show  it 

To  any  other  heart; 
Who  writes  no  learned  riddle, 

But  sings  his  simplest  rune, 
Takes  his  heart-strings  for  a  fiddle, 

And  plays  his  easiest  tune." 

Mr.  Foss  always  had  to  recite  the  following  poem 
when  he  called  at  Breezy  Meadows 

THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  A  LUNKHEAD 

I'm  a  lunkhead,  an'  I  know  it;  'taint  no  use  to  squirm 

an'  talk, 
I'm  a  gump  an'  I'm  a  lunkhead,  I'm  a  lummux,  I'm 

a  gawk, 


190         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

An'  I  make  this  interduction  so  that  all  you  folks  can 

see 
An'  understan'  the  natur'  of  the  critter  thet  I  be. 

I  allus  wobble  w'en  I  walk,  my  j'ints  are  out  er  gear, 
My  arms  go   flappin'  through  the  air,  jest    like  an 

el'phunt's  ear; 
An'  when  the  womern  speaks  to  me  I  stutter  an'  grow 

weak, 
A  big  frog  rises  in  my  throat,  an'  he  won't  let  me  speak. 

Wall,  that's  the  kind  er  thing  I  be;  but  in  our  neigh 
borhood 

Lived  young  Joe  Craig  an'  young  Jim  Stump  an' 
Hiram  Underwood. 

We  growed  like  corn  in  the  same  hill,  jest  like  four 
sep'rit  stalks; 

For  they  wuz  lunkheads,  jest  like  me,  an'  lummuxes 
and  gawks. 

Now,  I  knew  I  wuz  a  lunkhead;  but  them  fellers  didn't 

know, 
Thought  they  wuz  the  biggest  punkins  an'  the  purtiest 

in  the  row. 
An'  I,  I  uster  laff  an'  say,  "Them  lunkhead  chaps  will 

see 
W'en  they  go  out  into  the  worl'  w'at  gawky  things 

they  be." 

Joe  Craig  was  a  lunkhead,  but  it  didn't  get  through  his 

pate; 
I  guess  you  all  heerd  tell  of  him — he's  governor  of  the 

state; 


Confessions  of  a  Lunkhead        191 

Jim  Stump,  he  blundered  off  to  war — a  most  un 
common  gump — 

Didn't  know  enough  to  know  it — 'an  he  came  home 
General  Stump. 

Then  Hiram  Underwood  went  off,  the  bigges'  gawk  of 
all, 

We  hardly  thought  him  bright  enough  to  share  in 
Adam's  fall ; 

But  he  tried  the  railroad  biz'ness,  an'  he  allus  grabbed 
his  share, — 

Now  this  gawk,  who  didn't  know  it,  is  a  fifty  million 
aire. 

An'  often  out  here  hoein'  I  set  down  atween  the  stalks, 
Thinkin'  how  we  four  together  all  were  lummuxes  an* 

gawks, 
All  were  gumps    and   lunkheads,    only  they  didn't 

know,  yer  see; 
An'  I  ask,  "  If  I  hadn'  known  it,  like  them  other  fellers 

there, 
Today  I  might  be  settin'  in  the  presidential  chair." 

We  all  are  lunkheads — don't  get  mad — an'  lummuxes 

and  gawks, 
But  us  poor  chaps  who  know  we  be — we  walk  in 

humble  walks. 
So,  I  say  to  all  good  lunkheads,  "  Keep  yer  own  selves 

in  the  dark ; 
Don't  own  to  reckernize  the  fact,  an'  you  will  make 

your  mark." 

Next  is  the  poem  which  is  most  quoted  and  best 
known : 


192         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

THE  HOUSE  BY  THE  SIDE  OF  THE  ROAD 

"  He  was  a  friend  to  man,  and  lived  in  a  house  by  the  side  of 
the  road." — HOMER. 

There  are  hermit  souls  that  live  withdrawn 

In  the  peace  of  their  self -content ; 
There  are  souls,  like  stars,  that  dwell  apart, 

In  a  fellowless  firmament; 
There  are  pioneer  souls  that  blaze  their  paths 

Where  highways  never  ran; — 
But  let  me  live  by  the  side  of  the  road 

And  be  a  friend  to  man. 

Let  me  live  in  a  house  by  the  side  of  the  road, 

Where  the  race  of  men  go  by — 
The  men  who  are  good  and  the  men  who  are  bad, 

As  good  and  as  bad  as  I. 
I  would  not  sit  in  the  scorner's  seat, 

Or  hurl  the  cynic's  ban; — 
Let  me  live  in  a  house  by  the  side  of  the  road 

And  be  a  friend  to  man. 

I  see  from  my  house  by  the  side  of  the  road, 

By  the  side  of  the  highway  of  life, 
The  men  who  press  with  the  ardour  of  hope, 

The  men  who  are  faint  with  the  strife. 
But  I  turn  not  away  from  their  smiles  nor  their  tears — 

Both  parts  of  an  infinite  plan; — 
Let  me  live  in  my  house  by  the  side  of  the  road 

And  be  a  friend  to  man. 

I  know  there  are  brook-gladdened  meadows  ahead 
And  mountains  of  wearisome  height; 


MacQueen's  Tribute  to  Foss      193 

That  the  road  passes  on  through  the  long  afternoon 

And  stretches  away  to  the  night. 
But  still  I  rejoice  when  the  travellers  rejoice, 

And  weep  with  the  strangers  that  moan, 
Nor  live  in  my  house  by  the  side  of  the  road 

Like  a  man  who  dwells  alone. 

Let  me  live  in  my  house  by  the  side  of  the  road 

Where  the  race  of  men  go  by — 

They  are  good,  they  are  bad,  they  are  weak,  they  are 
strong, 

Wise,  foolish — so  am  I. 
Then  why  should  I  sit  in  the  scorner's  seat 

Or  hurl  the  cynic's  ban? — 
Let  me  live  in  my  house  by  the  side  of  the  road 

And  be  a  friend  to  man. 

Mr.  Foss's  attribution  to  Homer  used  as  a  motto 
preceding  his  poem,  "The  House  by  the  Side  of 
the  Road,"  is,  no  doubt,  his  translation  of  a  pas 
sage  from  the  Iliad,  book  vi.,  which,  as  done  into 
English  prose  in  the  translation  of  Lang,  Leaf  and 
Myers,  is  as  follows: 

Then  Diomedes  of  the  loud  war-cry  slew  Axylos, 
Teuthranos'  son  that  dwelt  in  stablished  Arisbe,  a 
man  of  substance  dear  to  his  fellows ;  for  his  dwelling 
was  by  the  road-side  and  he  entertained  all  men. 

SAM  WALTER  FOSS 

Sam  Walter  Foss  was  a  poet  of  gentle  heart.     His 
keen  wit  never  had  any  sting.     He  has  described  our 
13 


194         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

Yankee  folk  with  as  clever  humour  as  Bret  Harte 
delineated  Rocky  Mountain  life.  Like  Harte,  Mr. 
Foss  had  no  unkindness  in  his  make-up.  He  told  me 
that  he  never  had  received  an  anonymous  letter  in  his 
life. 

Our  American  nation  is  wonderful  in  science  and 
mechanical  invention.  It  was  the  aim  of  Sam  Walter 
Foss  to  immortalize  the  age  of  steel.  "Harness  all 
your  rivers  above  the  cataracts'  brink,  and  then 
unharness  man. "  He  told  me  he  thought  the  subject 
of  mechanics  was  as  poetical  as  the  song  of  the  lark. 
"The  Cosmos  wrought  for  a  billion  years  to  make  glad 
for  a  day, "  reminds  us  of  the  most  resonant  periods  of 
Tennyson. 

"The  House  by  the  Side  of  the  Road, "  is  from  a  text 
of  Homer.  "The  Lunkhead"  shows  Foss  in  his  hap 
piest  mood :  gently  satirizing  the  foibles  and  harmless t 
foolish  fancies  of  his  fellow-men.  There  is  a  haunt 
ing  misty  tenderness  in  such  a  poem  as  "The  Tree 
Lover." 

"Who  loves  a  tree  he  loves  the  life 
kThat  springs  in  flower  and  clover; 

He  loves  the  love  that  gilds  the  cloud, 

And  greens  the  April  sod; 

He  loves  the  wide  beneficence, 

His  soul  takes  hold  of  God. " 

We  have  too  little  love  for  the  tender  out-of-door 
nature.  "The  world  is  too  much  with  us. " 

It  was  a  loss  to  American  life  and  letters  when  Sam 
Walter  Foss  passed  away  from  us  at  the  height  of  his 
strong  true  manhood.  Later  he  will  be  regarded  as  an 
eminent  American. 


Peter  MacQueen  195 

He  was  true  to  our  age  to  the  core.  Whether  he 
wrote  of  the  gentle  McKinley,  the  fighting  Dewey, 
the  ludicrous  schoolboy,  the  " grand  eternal  fellows" 
that  are  coming  to  this  world  after  we  have  left  it — he 
was  ever  a  weaver  at  the  loom  of  highest  thought. 
The  world  is  not  to  be  civilized  and  redeemed  by  the 
apostles  of  steel  and  brute  force.  Not  the  Hannibals 
and  Caesars  and  Kaisers  but  the  Shelley s,  the  Scotts, 
and  the  Fosses  are  our  saviours.  They  will  have  a 
large  part  in  the  future  of  the  world  to  heighten  and 
brighten  life  and  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men. 

These  and  such  as  these  are  our  consolation  in  life's 
thorny  pathway.  They  keep  alive  in  us  the  memory 
of  our  youth  and  many  a  jaded  traveller  as  he  listens 
to  their  music,  sees  again  the  apple  blossoms  falling 
around  him  in  the  twilight  of  some  unforgotten 
spring. 

PETER  MACQUEEN. 

Peter  MacQueen  was  brought  to  my  house  years 
ago  by  a  friend  when  he  happened  to  be  stationary 
for  an  hour,  and  he  is  certainly  a  unique  and  inter 
esting  character,  a  marvellous  talker,  reciter  of 
Scotch  ballads,  a  maker  of  epigrams,  and  a  most 
unpractical,  now-you-see-him  and  now-he's-a-far- 
away  fellow.  I  remember  his  remark,  "Break 
fast  is  a  fatal  habit."  It  was  not  the  breakfast 
to  which  he  referred  but  to  the  gathering  round  a 
table  at  a  stated  hour,  far  too  early,  when  not  in  a 
mood  for  society  or  for  conversation.  And  again : 
"I  have  decided  never  to  marry.  A  poor  girl  is 


196         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

a  burden;  a  rich  girl  a  boss. "     But  you  never  can 
tell.     He  is  now  a  Benedict. 

I  wrote  to  Mr.  MacQueen  lately  for  some  of  his 
press  notices,  and  a  few  of  the  names  which  he 
called  himself  when  I  received  his  letters. 

MY  DEAR  KATE  SANBORN  : — Yours  here  and  I  has 
ten  to  reply.  Count  Tolstoi  remarked  to  me:  "Your 
travels  have  been  so  vast  and  you  have  been  with  so 
many  peoples  and  races,  that  an  account  of  them  would 
constitute  a  philosophy  in  itself. " 

Theodore  Roosevelt  said,  "No  other  American 
has  travelled  over  our  new  possessions  more  uni 
versally,  nor  observed  the  conditions  in  them  so 
quickly  and  sanely." 

Kennan  was  persona  non  grata  to  the  Russians, 
especially  after  his  visit  to  Siberia,  but  Mr.  Mac- 
Queen  was  most  cordially  welcomed. 

What  an  odd  scene  at  Tolstoi's  table!  The 
countess  and  her  daughter  in  full  evening  dress  with 
the  display  of  jewels,  and  at  the  other  end  Tolstoi 
in  the  roughest  sort  of  peasant  dress  and  with  bare 
feet.  At  dinner  Count  Tolstoi  said  to  Mr.  Mac- 
Queen:  "If -I  had  travelled  as  much  as  you  have, 
I  should  today  have  had  a  broader  philosophy. " 

Mr.  MacQueen  says  of  Russia : 

During  the  past  one  hundred  years  the  empire  of  the 
Czar  has  made  slow  progress;  but  great  bodies  move 


Peter  MacQueen  197 

slowly,  and  Russia  is  colossal.  Two  such  republics 
as  the  United  States  with  our  great  storm  door  called 
Alaska,  could  go  into  the  Russian  empire  and  yet 
leave  room  enough  for  Great  Britain,  Germany,  and 

Austria. 

Journeys  taken  by  Mr.  MacQueen : 
1896 — to  Athens  and  Greece. 
1897 — to  Constantinople  and  Asia  Minor. 
1898 — in  the  Santiago  Campaign  with  the  Rough 

Riders,  and  in  Porto  Rico  with  General 

Miles. 
1899 — with  General  Henry  W.   Lawton  to  the 

Philippines,  returning  through  Japan. 
1900 — with  DeWet,  Delarey,  and  Botha  in  the 

Boer  Army;  met  Oom  Paul,  etc. 
1901 — to  Russia  and  Siberia  on  pass  from  the  Czar, 

visiting  Tolstoi,  etc. 
1902 — to  Venezuela,  Panama,   Cuba,  and  Porto 

Rico. 
1903 — to  Turkey,  Macedonia,  Servia,  Hungary, 

Austria,  etc. 

In  the  meantime  Mr.  MacQueen  has  visited 
every  country  in  Europe,  completing  240,000  miles 
in  ten  years,  a  distance  equal  to  that  which  sepa 
rates  this  earth  from  the  moon. 

Last  winter  he  was  four  months  in  the  war  zone, 
narrowly  escaping  arrest  several  times,  and  other 


198         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

serious  dangers,  as  they  thought  him  a  spy  with 
his  camera  and  pictures.  I  gave  a  stag  dinner  for 
him  just  after  his  return  from  his  war  experiences, 
and  the  daily  bulletins  of  war's  horrors  seemed 
dull  reading  after  his  stories. 

Here  is  an  extract  from  a  paper  sent  by  Peter 
MacQueen  from  Iowa,  where  he  long  ago  was  in 
great  demand  as  a  lecturer,  which  contained  several 
of  the  best  anecdotes  told  by  this  irresistible  racon 
teur,  which  may  be  new  to  you,  if  not,  read  them 
again  and  then  tell  them  yourself. 

Mr.  MacQueen,  who  is  to  lecture  at  the  Chautauqua 
here,  has  many  strange  stories  and  quaint  yarns  that 
he  picked  up  while  travelling  around  the  globe.  While 
in  the  highlands  of  Scotland  he  met  a  canny  old ' '  Scot " 
who  asked  him,  "Have  you  ever  heard  of  Andrew 
Carnegie  in  America?"  "Yes,  indeed,"  replied  the 
traveller.  "Weel,"  said  the  Scot,  pointing  to  a  little 
stream  near-by,  "in  that  wee  burn  Andrew  and  I 
caught  our  first  trout  together.  Andrew  was  a  bare 
footed,  bareheaded,  ragged  wee  callen,  no  muckle  guid 
at  onything.  But  he  gaed  off  to  America,  and  they 
say  he's  doin'  real  weel." 

While  in  the  Philippines  Mr.  MacQueen  was 
marching  with  some  of  the  colored  troops  who 
have  recently  been  dismissed  by  the  President. 
A  big  coloured  soldier  walking  beside  Mr.  Mac- 
Queen  had  his  white  officer's  rations  and  ammuni- 


Edwin  C.  Bolles  199 

tion  and  can-kit,  carrying  them  in  the  hot  tropical 
sun.  The  big  fellow  turned  to  the  traveller  and 
said:  "Say,  there,  comrade,  this  yere  White  Man's 
Burden  ain't  all  it's  cracked  up  to  be. " 

In  the  Boer  war  Mr.  MacQueen,  war  correspondent 
and  lecturer,  tells  of  an  Irish  Brigade  man  from 
Chicago  on  Sani  river ^  The  correspondent  was  along 
with  the  Irish-Americans  and  saw  them  take  a  hill 
from  a  force  of  Yorkshire  men  very  superior  in  num 
bers.  Mr.  MacQueen  also  saw  a  green  flag  of  Ireland 
in  the  British  lines.  Turning  to  his  Irish  friend,  he 
remarked:  "Isn't  it  a  shame  to  see  Irishmen  fighting 
for  the  Queen,  and  Irishmen  fighting  for  the  Boers  at 
the  same  time?"  "Sorra  the  bit,"  replied  his  com 
panion,  "it  wouldn't  be  a  proper  fight  if  there  wasn't 
Irishmen  on  both  sides." 

Here's  hoping  that  during  Mr.  MacQueen 's  long 
vacation  from  sermons,  lectures,  and  tedious  con 
ventionalities  in  the  outdoors  of  the  darkest  and 
deepest  Africa,  the  wild  beasts,  including  the 
man-eating  tiger,  may  prove  the  correctness  of 
Mrs.  Seton  Thompson's  good  words  for  them  and 
only  approach  him  to  have  their  photos  taken  or 
amiably  allow  themselves  to  be  shot.  The  canni 
bals  will  decide  he  is  too  thin  and  wiry  for  a  really 
tempting  meal. 

Doctor  Edwin  C.  Bolles  has  been  for  fifteen 
years  on  the  Faculty  of  Tufts  College,  Massachu- 


200         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

setts,  and  still  continues  active  service  at  the  age 
of  seventy-eight. 

His  history  courses  are  among  the  popular  ones 
in  the  curriculum,  and  his  five  minutes'  daily  talks 
in  Chapel  have  won  the  admiration  of  the  entire 
College. 

He  was  for  forty-five  years  in  active  pastoral 
service  in  the  Universalist  ministry ;  was  Professor 
of  Microscopy  for  three  years  at  St.  Lawrence 
University.  Doctor  Bolles  was  one  of  the  pioneers 
in  the  lecture  field  and  both  prominent  and 
popular  in  this  line,  and  the  first  in  the  use  of  illus 
trations  by  the  stereopticon  in  travel  lectures. 

The  perfection  of  the  use  of  microscopic  pro 
jection  which  has  done  so  much  for  the  populariza 
tion  of  science  was  one  of  his  exploits. 

For  several  years  his  eyesight  has  been  failing, 
an  affliction  which  he  has  borne  with  Christian 
courage  and  cheerfulness  and  keeps  right  on  at 
his  beloved  work. 

He  has  been  devoted  to  photography  in  which 
avocation  he  has  been  most  successful.  His  wife 
told  me  they  were  glad  to  accept  his  call  to  New 
York  as  he  had  almost  filled  every  room  in  their 
house  with  his  various  collections.  One  can  ap 
preciate  this  when  he  sees  a  card  displayed  on  the 
door  of  Doctor  Bolles' s  sanctum  bearing  this  motto : 


Golden  Rod  and  Aster  201 

"  A  man  is  known  by  the  Trumpery  he  keeps. " 
He  has  received   many  honorary  degrees,  but 
his  present  triumph  over  what  would  crush  the 
ambition  of  most  men  is  greater  than  all  else. 

Exquisite  nonsense  is  a  rare  thing,  but  when 
found  how  delicious  it  is !  I  found  a  letter  from  a 
reverend  friend  who  might  be  an  American  Sidney 
Smith  if  he  chose,  and  I  am  going  to  let  you  enjoy 
it;  it  was  written  years  ago. 

Speaking  of  the  "Purple  and  Gold,"  he  says: 

I  should  make  also  better  acknowledgments  than 
my  thanks.  But  what  can  I  do?  My  volume  on  The 
Millimetric  Study  of  the  Tail  of  the  Greek  Delta,  in  the 
MSS.  of  the  Sixth  Century,  is  entirely  out  of  print;  and 
until  its  re-issue  by  the  Seaside  Library  I  cannot  for 
ward  a  copy.  Then  my  essay,  "Infantile  Diseases  of 
the  Earthworm''  is  in  Berlin  for  translation,  as  it  is 
to  be  issued  at  the  same  time  in  Germany  and  the 
United  States.  ' '  The  Moral  Regeneration  of  the  Rat," 
and  "  Intellectual  Idiosyncracies  of  Twin  Clams,"  are 
resting  till  I  can  get  up  my  Sanscrit  and  Arabic,  for 
I  wish  these  researches  to  be  exhaustive. 

He  added  two  poems  which  I  am  not  selfish 
enough  to  keep  to  myself. 

GOLDEN   ROD 

O!  Golden  Rod!  Thou  garish,  gorgeous  gush 
Of  passion  that  consumes  hot  summer's  heart ! 


202         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

O !  yellowest  yolk  of  love !  in  yearly  hush 

I  stand,  awe  sobered,  at  thy  burning  bush 
Of  Glory,  glossed  with  lustrous  and  illustrious  art, 
And  moan,  why  poor,  so  poor  in  purse  and  brain 

I  am, 
While  thou  into  thy  trusting  treasury  dost  seem  to 

cram 
Australia,  California,  Sinai  and  Siam. 

And  the  other  such  a  capital  burlesque  of  the 
modern  English  School  with  its  unintelligible 
parentheses : 

ASTER 

I  kissed  her  all  day  on  her  red,  red  mouth 

(Cats,  cradles  and  trilobites !  Love  is  the  master !) 

Too  utterly  torrid,  a  sweet,  spicy  South 
(Of  composite,  fairest  the  Aster.) 

Stars  shone  on  our  kisses — the  moon  blushed  warm 
(Ursa  major  or  minor,  Pollux  and  Castor!) 

How  long  the  homeward !     And  where  was  my  arm  ?) 
(Crushed,  crushed  at  her  waist  was  the  Aster !) 

No  one  kisses  me  now — my  winter  has  come: 

(To  ice  turns  fortune  when  once  you  have  passed 
her.) 

I  long  for  the  angels  to  beckon  me  home  (hum) 
(For  dead,  deader,  deadest,  the  Aster!) 

Doctor  Bolles  has  very  kindly  sent  me  one  of  his 
later  humorous  poems.  A  tragic  forecast  of 
suffragette  rule  which  is  too  gloomy,  as  almost 


A  Short  Poem  by  Dr.  Bolles      203 

every  woman  will  assure  an  agreeable  smoker  that 
she  is  "fond  of  the  odour  of  a  good  cigar. " 

DESCENSUS    AD   INFERNUM 

When  the  last  cigar  is  smoked  and  the  box  is  splintered 

and  gone, 
And  only  the  faintest  whiff  of  the  dear  old  smell  hangs 

on, 

In  the  times  when  he's  idle  or  thoughtful, 
When  he's  lonesome,  jolly  or  blue, 
And  he  fingers  his  useless  matches, 
What  is  a  poor  fellow  to  do  ? 

For  the  suffragettes  have  conquered,  and  their  harvest 
is  gathered  in ; 

From  Texas  to  Maine  they've  voted  tobacco  the  dead 
liest  sin; 

A  pipe  sends  you  up  for  a  year,  a  cigarette  for  two ; 

In  this  female  republic  of  virtue, 

What  is  a  poor  fellow  to  do  ? 

He  may  train  up  his  reason  on  bridge  and  riot  on 

afternoon  tea, 
And  at  dinner,  all  wineless  and  proper,  a  dress-suited 

guest  he  may  be ; 
But  when  the  mild  cheese  has  been  passed,  and  the 

chocolate  mint  drops  are  few, 
And  the  coffee  comes  in  and  he  hankers, 
What  is  a  poor  fellow  to  do  ? 

It's  all  for  his  good,  they  say;  for  in  heaven  no  nicotine 

grows, 
And  the  angels  need  no  cedar  for  moth-proofs  to  keep 

their  clothes; 


204         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

No  ashes  are  dropped,  no  carpets  are  singed,  by  all  the 

saintly  crew; 

If  this  is  heaven,  and  he  gets  there, 
What  is  a  poor  fellow  to  do? 

He'll  sit  on  the  golden  benches  and  long  for  a  chance  to 

break  jail, 
With  a  shooting-star  for  a  motor,  or  a  flight  on  a 

comet's  tail ; 
He'll  see  the  smoke  rise  in  the  distance,  and  goaded 

by  memory's  spell, 

He'll  go  back  on  the  women  who  saved  him, 
And  ask  for  a  ticket  to  Hell ! 

An  exact  description  of  the  usual  happenings  at 
"Breezy  "  in  the  beginning,  by  my  only  sister,  Mrs. 
Babcock,  who  was  devoted  to  me  and  did  more 
than  anyone  to  help  to  develop  the  Farm.  I  feel 
that  this  chapter  must  be  the  richer  for  two  of  her 
poems. 

LIGHT    AND    SHADE    AT     "BREEZY    MEADOWS "     FARM 

This  charming  May  morning  we'll  walk  to  the  grove ! 

And  give  the  dear  dogs  all  a  run; 
Over  the  meadows  'tis  pleasant  to  rove 

And  bask  in  the  light  of  the  sun. 

Last  night  a  sly  fox  took  off  our  best  duck ! 

Run  for  a  gun !  there  a  hen  hawk  flies ! 
We  always  have  the  very  worst  of  luck, 

The  anxious  mistress  of  the  chickens  cries. 


PADDLING    IN    CHICKEN    BROOK 


Breezy  Meadows  Farm  205 

We  stop  to  smell  the  lilacs  at  the  gate, 

And  watch  the  bluebirds  in  the  elm-tree's  crest — 

The  finest  farm  it  is  in  all  the  state, 
Which  corner  of  it  do  you  like  the  best? 

Just  think!  a  rat  has  eaten  ducklings  two, 
Now  isn't  that  a  shame!  pray  set  a  trap! 

The  downiest,  dearest  ones  that  ever  grew, 
I  think  this  trouble  will  climax  cap! 

At  "Sun  Flower  Rock,"  in  joy  we  stand  to  gaze; 

The  distant  orchard,  flowering,  show  so  fair: 
Surely  my  dear,  abandoned  farming  pays, 

How  heavenly  the  early  morning  air ! 

Now  only  see !  those  horrid  hens  are  scratching ! 

They  tear  the  Mountain  Fringe  so  lately  set ! 
Some  kind  of  mischief  they  are  always  hatching, 

Why  did  I  ever  try  a  hen  to  pet? 

Here's  "Mary's  Circle,"  and  the  birches  slender, 
And  Columbine  which  grows  the  rocks  between, 

Red  blossoms  showing  in  a  regal  splendour ! 
We  must  be  happy  in  this  peaceful  scene. 

The  puppies  chew  the  woodbine  and  destroy 
The  dainty  branches  sprouting  on  the  wall! 

How  can  the  little  wretches  so  annoy? 
There's  Solomon  Alphonzo — worst  of  all! 

Now  we  will  go  to  breakfast — milk  and  cream, 
Eggs  from  the  farm,  surely  it  is  a  treat ! 

How  horrid  city  markets  really  seem 

When  one  can  have  fresh  things  like  these  to  eat! 


206         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

What?  Nickodee  has  taken  all  the  hash? 

And  smashed  the  dish  which  lies  upon  the  floor! 
I  thought  just  now  I  heard  a  sudden  crash! 

And  it  was  he  who  slammed  the  kitchen  door! 

By  "Scare  Crow  Road"  we  take  our  winding  way, 

Tiger  and  Jerry  in  the  pasture  feed. 
See,  Mary, — what  a  splendid  crop  of  hay! 

Now,  don't  you  feel  that  this  is  joy  indeed? 

The  incubator  chickens  all  are  dead ! 

Max  rights  with  Shep,  he  scorns  to  follow  me! 
Some  fresh  disaster  momently  I  dread; 

Is  that  a  skunk  approaching? — try  to  see! 

Come  Snip  and  Snap  and  give  us  song  and  dance! 

We'll  have  a  fire  and  read  the  choicest  books, 
While  the  black  horses  waiting,  paw  and  prance! 

And  see  how  calm  and  sweet  all  nature  looks. 

So  goes  the  day;  the  peaceful  landscape  smiles; 

At  times  the  live  stock  seems  to  take  a  rest. 
But  fills  our  hearts  with  worry  other  whiles! 

We  think  each  separate  creature  is  possessed ! 

MARY  W.  BABCOCK. 

THE   OLD  WOMAN 

The  little  old  woman,  who  wove  and  who  spun, 
Who  sewed  and  who  baked,  did  she  have  any  fun? 

In  housewifely  arts  with  her  neighbour  she'd  vie, 
Her  triumph  a  turkey,  her  pleasure  a  pie ! 

She  milked  and  she  churned,  and  the  chickens  she  fed, 
She  made  tallow  dips,  and  she  moulded  the  bread. 


The  Old  Woman  207 

No  club  day  annoyed  her,  no  program  perplext, 
No  themes  for  discussion  her  calm  slumber  vexed. 

By  birth  D.  A.  R.  or  Colonial  Dame, 

She  sought  for  no  record  to  blazon  her  fame — 

No  Swamies  she  knew,  she  cherished  no  fad, 
Of  healing  by  science,  no  knowledge  she  had. 

She  anointed  with  goose  grease,  she  gave  castor  oil, 
Strong  sons  and  fair  daughters  rewarded  her  toil. 

She  studied  child  nature  direct  from  the  child, 
And  she  spared  not  the  rod,  though  her  manner  was 
mild. 

All  honour  be  paid  her,  this  heroine  true, 

She  laid  the  foundation  for  things  we  call  new! 

Her  hand  was  so  strong,  and  her  brain  was  so  steady, 
That  for  the  New  Woman  she  made  the  world  ready. 

MARY  W.  BABCOCK. 

Here  is  one  of  the  several  parodies  written  by 
my  brother  while  interned  in  a  log  camp  in  the 
woods  of  New  Brunswick,  during  a  severe  day's 
deluge  of  rain.  It  was  at  the  time  when  Peary 
had  recently  reached  the  North  Pole,  and  Dr. 
Cook  had  reported  his  remarkable  observations 
of  purple  snows : 

DON'T  YOU  HEAR  THE  NORTH  A-CALLIN*  ? 

Ship  me  somewhere  north  o'   nowhere,   where  the 
worst  is  like  the  best ; 


208         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

Where  there  aren't  no  p'ints  o'  compass,  an*  a  man  can 

get  a  rest ; 
Where  a  breeze  is  like  a  blizzard,  an*  the  weather  at  its 

best; 
Dogs  and  Huskies  does  the  workin'  and  the  Devil 

does  the  rest. 

On  the  way  to  Baffin's  Bay, 
Where  the  seal  and  walrus  play, 
And  the  day  is  slow  a-comin',  slower 
Still  to  go  away. 

There  I  seen  a  walrus  baskin' — bloomin'  blubber  to 

the  good; 
Could  I  'it  'im  for  the  askin'?     Well— I  missed  'im 

where  he  stood. 
Ship  me  up  there,  north  o'  nowhere,  where  the  best  is 

like  the  worst; 
Where  there  aren't  no  p'ints  o'  compass,  and  the  last 

one  gets  there  first. 

Take  me  back  to  Baffin's  Bay, 
Where  the  seal  and  walrus  play ; 
And  the  night  is  long  a-comin',  when  it 
Comes,  it  comes  to  stay. 

THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   BROOM 

A  Mate  for  "The  Man  With  The  Hoe." 
(Written  after  seeing  a  farmer's  wife  cleaning  house.) 

Bowed  by  the  cares  of  cleaning  house  she  leans 
Upon  her  broom  and  gazes  through  the  dust. 


The  Woman  with  the  Broom      209 

A  wilderness  of  wrinkles  on  her  face, 
And  on  her  head  a  knob  of  wispy  hair. 
Who  made  her  slave  to  sweeping  and  to  soap, 
A  thing  that  smiles  not  and  that  never  rests, 
Stanchioned  in  stall,  a  sister  to  the  cow? 
Who  loosened  and  made  shrill  this  angled  jaw? 
Who  dowered  this  narrowed  chest  for  blowing  up 
Of  sluggish  men-folks  and  their  morning  fire? 

Is  this  the  thing  you  made  a  bride  and  brought 

To  have  dominion  over  hearth  and  home, 

To  scour  the  stairs  and  search  the  bin  for  flour, 

To  bear  the  burden  of  maternity? 

Is  this  the  wife  they  wove  who  framed  our  law 

And  pillared  a  bright  land  on  smiling  homes? 

Down  all  the  stretch  of  street  to  the  last  house 

There  is  no  shape  more  angular  than  hers, 

More  tongued  with  gabble  of  her  neighbours'  deeds, 

More  filled  with  nerve-ache  and  rheumatic  twinge, 

More  fraught  with  menace  of  the  frying-pan. 

O  Lords  and  Masters  in  our  happy  land, 
How  with  this  woman  will  you  make  account, 
How  answer  her  shrill  question  in  that  hour 
When  whirlwinds  of  such  women  shake  the  polls, 
Heedless  of  every  precedent  and  creed, 
Straight  in  hysteric  haste  to  right  all  wrongs? 
How  will  it  be  with  cant  of  politics, 
With  king  of  trade  and  legislative  boss, 
With  cobwebs  of  hypocrisy  and  greed, 
When  she  shall  take  the  ballot  for  her  broom 
And  sweep  away  the  dust  of  centuries? 

EDWARD  W.  SANBORN. 
14 


210         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

NEW   HAMPSHIRE    DAUGHTERS 

New  Hampshire  Daughters  meet  tonight 
With  joy  each  cup  is  brimmin' ; 

We've  heard  for  years  about  her  men, 
But  why  leave  out  her  wimmin? 

In  early  days  they  did  their  share 

To  git  the  state  to  goin', 
And  when  their  husbands  went  to  war, 

Could  fight  or  take  to  hoein'. 

They  bore  privations  with  a  smile,  ~ 

Raised  families  surprisin', 
Six  boys,  nine  gals,  with  twins  thrown  in, 

0,  they  were  enterprisin'. 

Yet  naught  is  found  their  deeds  to  praise 

In  any  book  of  hist'ry, 
The  brothers  wrote  about  themselves, 

And — well,  that  solves  the  myst'ry. 

But  now  our  women  take  their  place 

In  pulpit,  court,  and  college, 
As  doctors,  teachers,  orators, 

They  equal  men  in  knowledge. 

And  when  another  history's  writ 
Of  what  New  Hampshire's  done, 

The  women  all  will  get  their  due, 
But  not  a  single  son. 

But  no,  on  sober  second  thought, 

We  lead,  not  pose  as  martyrs, 
We'll  give  fair  credit  to  her  sons, 

But  not  forget  her  Darters. 

KATE  SANBORN, 


A  Turkey  Dinner  211 

A  little  of  my  (not  doggerel)  but  pupperell  to 
complete  the  family  trio. 

Answer  to  an  artist  friend  who  begged  for  a 
"Turkey  dinner." 

Delighted  to  welcome  you  dear; 

But  you  can't  have  a  Turkey  dinner! 
Those  fowls  are  my  friends — live  here : 

To  eat,  not  be  eat,  you  sinner ! 

I  like  their  limping,  primping  mien, 

I  like  their  raucous  gobble ; 
I  like  the  lordly  tail  outspread, 
,    I  like  their  awkward  hobble. 

Yes,  Turkey  is  my  favourite  meat, ' 

Hot,  cold,  or  rechauffee; 
*But  my  own  must  stay,  and  eat  and  eat; 

You  may  paint  'em,  and  so  take  away. 

KATE  SANBORN. 

SPRING  IN  WINTER 
A  Memory  of  "Breezy  Meadows" 

'Twas  winter — and  bleakly  and  bitterly  came 
The  winds  o'er  the  meads  you  so  breezily  name; 
And  what  tho'  the  sun  in  the  heavens  was  bright, 
'Twas  lacking  in  heat  altho'  lavish  in  light. 
And  cold  were  the  guests  who  drew  up  to  your  door, 
But  lo,  when  they  entered  'twas  winter  no  more! 

*  Metre  adapted  to  the  peculiar  feet  of  this  bird. 


212         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

Without,  it  might  freeze,  and  without,  it  might  storm, 
Within,  there  was  welcome  all  glowing  and  warm. 
And  oh,  but  the  warmth  in  the  hostess's  eyes 
Made  up  for  the  lack  of  that  same  in  the  skies! 
And  fain  is  the  poet  such  magic  to  sing : 
Without,  it  was  winter — within,  it  was  spring ! 

Yea,  spring — for  the  charm  of  the  house  and  its  cheer 
Awoke  in  us  dreams  of  the  youth  of  the  year; 
And  safe  in  your  graciousness  folded  and  furled, 
How  far  seemed  the  cold  and  the  care  of  the  world! 
So  strong  was  the  spell  that  your  magic  could  fling, 
We  knew  it  was  winter — we  felt  it  was  spring ! 

Yea,  spring — in  the  glow  of  your  hearth  and  your 

board 

The  springtime  for  us  was  revived  and  restored, 
And  everyone  blossomed,  from  hostess  to  guest, 
In  story  and  sentiment,  wisdom  and  jest; 
And  even  the  bard  like  a  robin  must  sing — 
And,  sure,  after  that,  who  could  doubt  it  was  spring! 

DENIS  A.  MCCARTHY. 
New  Year's  Day,  1909. 

Mr.  McCarthy  is  associate  editor  of  The  Sacred 
Heart,  Boston,  and  a  most  popular  poet  and  lecturer. 

His  dear  little  book,  Voices  from  Erin,  adorned 
with  the  Irish  harp  and  the  American  shield 
fastened  together  by  a  series  of  true-love  knots, 
is  dedicated  ' '  To  all  who  in  their  love  for  the  new 
land  have  not  forgotten  the  old."  There  is  one 
of  these  poems  which  is  always  called  for  whenever 


Sweet  is  Tipperary  in  the  Spring    213 

the  author  attends  any  public  function  where 
recitations  are  in  order,  and  I  do  not  wonder  at 
its  popularity,  for  it  has  the  genuine  Irish  lilt 
and  fascination : 

"  Ah,  sweet  is  Tipperary  in  the  spring  time  of  the 

year, 

When  the  hawthorn's  whiter  than  the  snow, 
When  the  feathered  folk  assemble  and  the  air  is  all 

a-tremble 

With  their  singing  and  their  winging  to  and  fro; 
When  queenly  Slieve-na-mon  puts  her  verdant  vesture 

on, 

And  smiles  to  hear  the  news  the  breezes  bring; 
When  the  sun  begins  to  glance  on  the  rivulets  that 

dance ; 
Ah,  sweet  is  Tipperary  in  the  spring!" 

I  have  always  wanted  to  write  a  poem  about 
my  own  "Breezy"  and  the  bunch  of  lilacs  at  the 
gate;  but  not  being  a  poet  I  have  had  to  keep 
wanting;  but  just  repeating  this  gaily  tripping  tri 
bute  over  and  over,  I  suddenly  seized  my  pencil  and 
pad,  and  actually  under  the  inspiration,  imitated 
(at  a  distance)  half  of  this  first  verse. 

How  sweet  to  be  at  Breezy  in  the  springtime  of  the 
year, 

With  the  lilacs  all  abloom  at  the  gate, 
And  everything  so  new,  so  jubilant,  so  dear, 

And  every  little  bird  is  a-looking  for  his  mate. 


214         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

There,  don't  you  dare  laugh!  Perhaps  an 
other  time  I  may  swing  into  the  exact  rhythm. 

The  Rev.  William  Rankin  Duryea,  late  Pro 
fessor  at  Rutgers  College,  New  Brunswick,  was 
before  that  appointment  a  clergyman  in  Jersey 
City.  His  wife  told  me  that  he  once  wrote  some 
verses  hoping  to  win  a  'prize  of  several  hundred 
dollars  offered  for  the  best  poem  on  "Home." 
He  dashed  off  one  at  a  sitting,  read  it  over,  tore 
it  up,  and  flung  it  in  the  waste  basket.  Then  he 
proceeded  to  write  something  far  more  serious  and 
impressive.  This  he  sent  to  the  committee  of 
judges  who  were  to  choose  the  winner.  It  was 
never  heard  of.  But  his  wife,  who  liked  the 
rhythm  of  the  despised  jingle,  took  it  from  the 
waste  basket,  pieced  it  together,  copied  it,  and  sent 
it  to  the  committee.  It  took  the  prize.  And  he 
showed  me  in  his  library,  books  he  had  long  wanted 
to  own,  which  he  had  purchased  with  this  "prize 
money,"  writing  in  each  "Bought  for  a  Song." 


Dark  is  the  night,  and  fitful  and  drearily 

Rushes  the  wind  like  the  waves  of  the  sea, 

Little  care  I  as  here  I  sing  cheerily, 

Wife  at  my  side  and  my  baby  on  knee; 

King,  King,  crown  me  the  King ! 

Home  is  the  Kingdom,  and  Love  is  the  King. 


THE    SWITCH 


The  Kingdom  of  Home          215 


Flashes  the  firelight  upon  the  dear  faces 
Dearer  and  dearer  as  onward  we  go, 
Forces  the  shadow  behind  us  and  places 
Brightness  around  us  with  warmth  in  the  glow 
King,  King,  crown  me  the  King! 
Home  is  the  Kingdom,  and  Love  is  the  King. 


Flashes  the  love-light  increasing  the  glory, 

Beaming  from  bright  eyes  with  warmth  of  the  soul, 

Telling  of  trust  and  content  the  sweet  story, 

Lifting  the  shadows  that  over  us  roll ; 

King,  King,  crown  me  the  King! 

Home  is  the  Kingdom,  and  Love  is  the  King. 


Richer  than  miser  with  perishing  treasure, 
Served  with  a  service  no  conquest  could  bring, 
Happy  with  fortune  that  words  cannot  measure, 
Light-hearted  I  on  the  hearthstone  can  sing, 
King,  King,  crown  me  the  King! 
Home  is  the  Kingdom,  and  Love  is  the  King. 

WM.  RANKIN  DURYEA,  D.D. 

Breezy  Meadows,  my  heart's  delight.  I  was 
so  fortunate  as  to  purchase  it  in  a  ten-minute 
interview  with  the  homesick  owner,  who  longed 
to  return  to  Nebraska,  and  complained  that  there 
was  not  grass  enough  on  the  place  to  feed  a  donkey. 


216         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

I  am  sure  this  was  not  a  personal  allusion,  as  I  saw 
the  donkey  and  he  did  look  forlorn. 

I  was  captivated  by  the  big  elms,  all  worthy  of 
Dr.  Holmes's  wedding-ring,  and  looked  no  fur 
ther,  never  dreaming  of  the  great  surprises  in 
store  for  me.  As,  a  natural  pond  of  water  lilies, 
some  tinted  with  pink.  These  lilies  bloom  earlier 
and  later  than  any  others  about  here. 

An  unusual  variety  of  trees,  hundreds  of  white 
birches  greatly  adding  to  the  beauty  of  the  place, 
growing  in  picturesque  clumps  of  family  groups 
and  their  white  bark,  especially  white. 

Two  granite  quarries,  the  black  and  white,  and 
an  exquisite  pink,  and  we  drive  daily  over  long 
stretches  of  solid  rock,  going  down  two  or  three 
hundred  feet — But  I  shall  never  explore  these  for 
illusive  wealth. 

A  large  chestnut  grove  through  which  my  fore 
man  has  made  four  excellent  roads.  Two  fascinat 
ing  brooks,  with  forget-me-nots,  blue-eyed  and 
smiling  in  the  water,  and  the  brilliant  cardinal- 
flower  on  the  banks  in  the  late  autumn. 

From  a  profusion  of  wild  flowers  I  especially 
remark  the  moccasin-flower  or  stemless  lady's- 
slipper. 

My  Nature's  Garden  says — "Because  most  peo 
ple  cannot  forbear  picking  this  exquisite  flower 


My  Wonderful  Farm  217 

that  seems  too  beautiful  to  be  found  outside  a 
millionaire's  hothouse,  it  is  becoming  rarer  every 
year,  until  the  picking  of  one  in  the  deep  forest 
where  it  must  now  hide,  has  become  the  event  of 
a  day's  walk."  Nearly  300  of  this  orchid  were 
found  in  our  wooded  garden  this  season. 

In  the  early  spring,  several  deer  are  seen  cross 
ing  the  field  just  a  little  distance  from  the  house. 
They  like  to  drink  at  the  brooks  and  nip  off  the 
buds  of  the  lilac  trees.  Foxes,  alas,  abound. 

Pheasants,  quail,  partridges  are  quite  tame, 
perhaps  because  we  feed  them  in  winter. 

I  found  untold  bushes  of  the  blueberry  and 
huckleberry,  also  enough  cranberries  in  the  swamp 
to  supply  our  own  table  and  sell  some.  Wild 
grape-vines  festoon  trees  by  the  brooks. 

Barberries,  a  dozen  bushes  of  these  which  are 
very  decorative,  and  their  fruit  if  skilfully  mixed 
with  raisins  make  a  foreign-tasting  and  delicious 
conserve. 

We  have  the  otter  and  mink,  and  wild  ducks 
winter  in  our  brooks.  Large  birds  like  the  heron 
and  rail  appear  but  rarely;  ugly  looking  and 
fierce. 

The  hateful  English  sparrow  has  been  so  re 
duced  in  numbers  by  sparrow  traps  that  now  they 
keep  away  and  the  bluebirds  take  their  own 


2i 8         Memories  and  Anecdotes 

boxes  again.  The  place  is  a  safe  and  happy  haven 
for  hosts  of  birds. 

I  have  a  circle  of  houses  for  the  martins  and 
swallows  and  wires  connecting  them,  where  a  deal 
of  gossip  goes  on. 

The  pigeons  coo-oo-o  on  the  barn  roof  and  are 
occasionally  utilized  in  a  pie,  good  too ! 

"1  wonder  how  my  great  trees  are  coming  on  this 
summer." 

"Where  are  your  trees,  Sir?"  said  the  divinity 
student. 

"Oh,  all  around  about  New  England.  I  call  all 
trees  mine  that  I  have  put  my  wedding  ring  on,  and  I 
have  as  many  tree- wives  as  Brigham  Young  has  hu 
man  ones."  "One  set's  as  green  as  the  other,"  ex 
claimed  a  boarder,  who  has  never  been  identified. 
"They're  all  Bloomers," — said  the  young  fellow  called 
John.  (I  should  have  rebuked  this  trifling  with  lan 
guage,  if  our  landlady's  daughter  had  not  asked  me 
just  then  what  I  meant  by  putting  my  wedding-ring 
on  a  tree.)  "Why,  measuring  it  with  my  thirty -foot 
tape,  my  dear,  said  I  — I  have  worn  a  tape  almost  out 
on  the  rough  barks  of  our  old  New  England  elms  and 
other  big  trees.  Don't  you  want  to  hear  me  talk 
trees  a  little  now?  That  is  one  of  my  specialties." 

"What  makes  a  first-class  elm?" 

"Why,  size,  in  the  first  place,  and  chiefly  anything 
over  twenty  feet  clear  girth  five  feet  above  the  ground 
and  with  a  spread  of  branches  a  hundred  feet  across 
may  claim  that  title,  according  to  my  scale.  All  of 
them,  with  the  questionable  exception  of  the  Spring- 


, 


GRAND    ELM 
(OVER  TWO  HUNDRED  YEARS  OLD) 


The  Call  of  Summer  219 

field  tree  above  referred  to,  stop,  so  far  as  my  expe 
rience  goes,  at  about  twenty-two  or  twenty-three  feet 
of  girth  and  a  hundred  and  twenty  of  spread." 

Three  of  my  big  elms  easily  stand  the  test  Dr. 
Holmes  prescribed,  and  seem  to  spread  themselves 
since  being  assured  that  they  are  worthy  of  one 
of  his  wedding-rings  if  he  were  alive,  and  soon 
there  will  be  other  applicants  in  younger  elms. 

I  am  pleased  that  my  memory  has  brought  be 
fore  me  so  unerringly  the  pleasant  pictures  of  the 
past.  But  my  agreeable  task  is  completed. 

The  humming-birds  have  come  on  this  fifteenth 
of  July  to  sip  at  early  morn  the  nectar  from  the 
blossoms  of  the  trumpet-vine,  now  beginning  its 
brilliant  display.  That  is  always  a  signal  for  me 
to  drop  all  indoor  engagements  and  from  this  time, 
the  high  noon  of  midsummer  fascinations,  to  keep 
out  of  doors  enjoying  to  the  full  the  ever-changing 
glories  of  Nature,  until  the  annual  Miracle  Play 
of  the  Transfiguration  of  the  Trees. 


THE  END 


A  Selection  from  the 
Catalogue  of 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


Complete  Catalogue  sent 
on  application 


Memories  of  a 
Publisher 

By 
George  Haven  Putnam,  Litt.D. 

Author  of  « Memories  of  My  Youth,"    "Books  and 

Their  Makers  in  the  Middle  Ages/'  "Abraham 

Lincoln,"  etc. 

5°.     With  'Portrait.     Price,  $2.00 

In  this  volume,  the  author  continues  his 
personal  reminiscences  from  1865,  the  date  to 
which  had  been  brought  the  narrative  in  his 
earlier  book  "  Memories  of  My  Youth.  " 

The  book  contains  also  some  record  of  the 
undertakings  of  the  Putnam  Publishing  House 
from  1872,  the  year  of  the  death  of  its  founder. 
The  "  Memoir  of  G.  P.  Putnam, "  published  in 
1912,  had  presented  an  account  of  the  publishing 
firm  from  the  year  of  its  organization. 

The  author  records  what  he  can  remember 
of  the  people  with  whom  he  has  had  personal 
relations  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic  during  the 
fifty  years  since  1865,  and  he  gives  also  his  own 
views  in  regard  to  certain  questions  of  the  day 
in  which,  as  a  citizen,  he  has  taken  his  part, 
such  as  Free  Trade,  Honest  Money,  Civil  Service 
Reform,  Copyright  International  and  Domestic, 
and  matters  connected  with  municipal,  state,  and 
national  politics. 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


The  Everyday  Life  of 
Abraham  Lincoln 

By 

Francis  F.  Browne 

Late  editor  of  The  Dial 
Compiler  of  "  Bugle  Echoes/'  "  Golden  poems/'  etc. 

12°.     With  Portraits.     $1.75 

The  original  edition  of  this  book  was  pub 
lished  about  twenty  years  after  Lincoln's 
death,  and  has  continued  to  attract  attention 
among  the  growing  circle  of  Lincoln's  ad 
mirers. 

This  book  brings  Lincoln  the  man,  not 
Lincoln  the  tradition,  very  near  to  us.  It 
embodies  the  reminiscences  of  over  five  hun 
dred  contemporaries  and  friends  of  Lincoln- 
reminiscences  which  were  gathered  largely 
at  first  hand. 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


Secret  Diplomatic 
Memoirs 


Count  Hayashi 

Late  Ambassador  to  Great  Britain ;  Foreign  Minii- 

ter  and  Minister  of  Commerce  and  Agriculture 

«t  the  Court  of  Japan 

8°.     $250 

In  this  volume  the  veteran  Japanese  diplomat 
traces  some  of  the  great  consummations  of 
recent  Japanese  diplomacy.  The  author,  as  the 
Ambassador  from  the  Mikado's  Empire  to  the 
Court  of  St.  James's,  had  a  large  measure  of 
responsibility  for  the  shaping  of  the  Anglo- 
Japanese  alliance.  His  verbatim  account  of 
the  diplomatic  play  of  forces  gives  a  very  clear 
impression  of  the  conduct  of  this  important 
affair  of  state. 

Of  especial  interest  to  American  readers  are 
also  the  chapters  in  which  the  author  discusses 
the  Americo- Japanese  Convention  of  1909,  and 
reviews  the  foreign  policy  of  Japan. 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


Prussian  Memories 

By 

Poultney  Bigelow 

72°.    $1.00 

Mr.  Poultney  Bigelow  passed  some  years 
of  his  boyhood  in  Prussia,  and  in  later  years  he 
made  various  sojourns  in  Germany.  At  the 
time  of  his  school  experience,  his  father,  the 
late  John  Bigelow,  was  Minister  in  Paris.  The 
father  had  friends  among  the  Court  officials  in 
Berlin,  and  young  Bigelow  had  the  opportunity, 
during  his  school  work,  of  associating  as  a  play 
mate  with  the  present  Emperor  William.  His 
boyish  impressions  were  corrected  or  confirmed 
through  the  knowledge  secured  in  his  later 
visits  to  Prussia.  He  writes  with  full  knowledge 
and  with  freedom  from  prejudice.  He  has  hi 
fact  an  affectionate  memory  of  his  playfellow 
William,  and  speaks  with  appreciation  of  other 
noteworthy  characters  with  whom  he  came  into 
relations.  In  summing  up,  however,  the  char 
acter,  the  aims,  and  the  policies  of  Prussia,  he 
arrives  at  the  conclusion  that  the  success  of 
Prussia  in  its  attempt  to  dominate  Europe  and 
to  create  a  world  empire  would  bring  serious 
trouble  upon  Germany,  upon  Europe,  and  upon 
the  world.  Mr.  Bigelow  has  a  keen  sense  of 
humor  and  his  narrative  is  dramatic,  spirited, 
and  thoroughly  readable. 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 
New  York  London 


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